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THE 

LYRE OF EBOR; 

THE FALL OF BELSHAZZAR; 

GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE 

AND OTHER POEMS. 

BY JOHN NICHOLSON, 

it 

AUTHOR OF AIREDALE IN ANCIENT TIMES, THE POACHER, &C. 



LONDON: 

SOLD BY SEELEY AND SON, 169, FLEET STREET J 
AND G. & E. NICHOLSON, ERADFORD. 



1827. 



ENTERED AT STATIONERS' HALL. 



En dixchajoge 
Brown University 
APR 1 



G. & E. NICHOLSON, PRINTERS, KIRKGATE, BRADFORD. 



lit- 



PREFACE. 



Encouraged by the friendly feelings which 
were manifested towards him after the publica- 
tion of the volume entitled " Airedale in 
Ancient Times/' &c. the author has attempted, 
through the solicitation of a numerous and 
respectable circle of acquaintance, to compose 
another, which, small as it may appear, has 
not been brought before the public without 
considerable anxiety, such as none but those 
who have experienced the cares of a poet can 
ever know. The time is past with him, when 



IV PREFACE. 

praise can exalt or censure depress. He was 
far more happy before he published than he has 
ever been since. 

Grateful the author must feel for the liberal 
support he has received ; yet he can assure 
his patrons that all which glitters is not gold. 
The expenses of publishing a volume are more 
than most of his subscribers consider. He has 
often been hurt when it has been hinted to him 
that he was getting rich. Prompted to this 
undertaking neither by a love of fame nor 
personal ambition, he has sought only the wel- 
fare and happiness of his family, as well as the 
gratification of some of his friends and ac- 
quaintance, who have been pleased to speak 
favourably of his productions. If the volume 
be utterly discarded, his mind cannot feel more 
misery than it has done during the time it has 
been in the press ; and so far from being ele- 



PREFACE. 



V 



vated with the pride of publishing, the only 
comfortable consideration he has left is, that 
he has a trade in his hands, and if his health 
be continued, can still support his family by 
honest industry. 

B ingle Y, July 28th, 1827. 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

Lyre of Ebor 1 

TheFallofBelshazzar 89 

The Vanity of Human Affairs 95 

Mary, I will think of you 98 

Genius and Intemperance 101 

The Malt- Kiln Fire 150 

The Maid of Lowdore 153 

Lines on the Consecration of St. PauPs Church, Shipley . . 155 

True Affection 159 

Ode to Laura 164 

Lines to a Friend 166 

The Deserted Maid 168 



vni 



CONTENTS. 



PAGE 

The Hunters' Dirge 171 

Lines on a calm Summer's Night 173 

T he Absent Lover 174 

A Fragment 177 

The Gathering of the Craven Warriors 180 

Lines spoken at the Anniversary Meeting at Leeds, to cele- 
brate the Birth-Day of Burns, 1826 1 84 

The Dying Lover 186 

The Muse 188 

Female Constancy 190 

On the Death of a Young Lady 192 

Song 194 

Dirge 196 

To the Critics .199 

Notes 201 



THE 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Let Northern Poets sing of highland glens, 
Their rocky caverns, and their dampy dens ; 
The heath-clad mountains, and their high cascades, 
Their trouty streams, and moonlight fairy shades ; 
Their unapproached rocks, grown gray with years, 
On whose rough front the bilberry bloom appears; 
Their ancient oaks, by Nature tumbled down, 
O'er whose huge trunks the mossy robe is thrown ; 
And scenes which triumph o'er description's power — 
All these are seen near Barden's ancient tower, 
Where peaceful, dwelt, some centuries ago, 
Those that durst meet in arms the border foe* 

B 



2 



LYRE OF EEOR. 



Or climb the hills, in ancient hawking skilled, 

And bear the bow with brazen quivers filled, 

Then send the arrow from the powerful string, 

That stopped the fleeting salmon's finny wing ; 

Or, did the eagle soar above his head, 

A shaft flies swift — the soaring eagle's dead. 

Oft, when at eve, he wandered near the rocks, 

And on their shelves beheld the wily fox, 

Swift flew the arrow from the well-strung bow, 

And brought his victim to the vale below. 

In this romantic, wild, and hidden place, 

The sons of Craven oft enjoyed the chase; 

When Cliffords for a time hung by their arms, 

And lived secure amidst their valley's charms. 

The deer and fox they seldom then pursued, 

But monsters, that oft stained their tusks with blood, 

To which the traveller feared to fall a prey, 

And mothers wept for children borne away. 



A crimson robe o'er Sol's bright orb was spread, 
Which tinged the hills, and every mountain's head, 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



3 



When near the rural stables, formed of wood, 
With horses fleet, the humble vassals stood ; 
Then the old horn, with long-forgotten sound, 
Sent forth its notes to all the woods around ; 
The woods, as though they each possessed a horn, 
Gave softer tones, t improve the jocund morn. 
The ancient Cliffords, with the bow and spear, 
In hunting dress of bristled hides appear ; 
Their vassals send to range the forest o'er, 
And find the cavern of the furious boar. 
Primo gave mouth, as down the hills they went, 
Where the rough monster late had left his scent : 
As bees, when swarming, near their queen are found, 
So sung around the best, each favourite hound. 
The various deep-mouthed notes, distinct and strong, 
Flew to the woods, as echo flies along ; 
The deer, affrighted, climbed the park's high hill, 
Ranged for the worst, in silence all stood still. 
The boar, enraged, the loosened earth upheaves, 
Shews his huge fangs, his den reluctant leaves ; 



4 



LYRE OF EEOR. 



Ten years of rapine had improved his strength — 

His tusks and bristles each a foot in length. 

Then were the sons of ancient Barden near, 

And those of Buckden, who the chase could cheer. 

Bolton's strong youths, and those of Hazlewood, 

In rustic pride upon the mountains stood : 

And on their steeds old Skipton's sons came o'er 

The rocky hills, to hunt this mighty boar. 

Then were no dandies, delicately laced, 

With all the beauty of a Frenchman graced ; 

But each was such as might have met in war 

Foes on the rock, the mountain, or the scar, 

And such as for their country had been tried, 

With those who for their constitution died j 

Such as had fought, but none could make them yield, 

When front to front they met on Flodden field, 

Where many left their nearest kindred slain, 

But ne'er refused to meet their foes again. 

The sand young Clifford held was half run down, 
When for the chase the cheerful horn was blown ; 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Then was the best of Craven hunts begun, 
The Lords e'er saw, or hounds could ever run. 
Down bent the bushes as he ran along, 
While every hound joined in the enlivening song. 
Old Barden's oaks so low their branches spread, 
That none could ride, but each his hunter led. 
Ofttimes the monster stopped, as in disdain, 
Then heard the shouts, and hastened on again ; 
Till from the woody shades he burst away, 
And with him burst the glories of the day ! 
Some sunk in bogs, and nearly buried, stood, 
While others, shouting, issued from the wood ; 
Beheld the hounds spread on their scented way, 
While Posforth Gill just kept them from their prey. 

Clifford rode first, and swift the chase he led, 
While the black heath was dimpled as he fled ; 
Next Skip ton's sons, and those of Bar den Fell, 
Followed in quick succession through the dell : 
Anon, the youths of Bolton led the way, 
Then Eastby hunters rode the first that day ; 



6 



LYRE OF EJB0R, 



While Rilstone riders showed themselves to be 
Far better horsemen than the moderns see. 
The footmen stopped behind, half filled with fears 
That his rough hide was proof against their spears 
Then high o'er Hober's hill, whose sable crest 
Oft with the furious monster had been prest, 
The cheerful tenants of the woody vale 
Shouted sometimes, then told a hunting tale ; 
Till, swelling on the breeze, they hear the sounds 
Of hunters' shouts, and the pursuing hounds. 
The answering shouts from its high top arise, 
And hats and caps are cast toward the skies ! 
Ofttimes the boar would strive to seek repose, 
Then front to front would meet his coming foes ; 
And, as he found his every effort vain 3 
He hastened, panting, further up the plain. 
At length he found a chasm, where oft he'd lain, 
Half filled with bones of victims he had slain. 
The hunters came, and raised their shining spears 
His blazing eye-balls showed he knew no fears. 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



? 



The fiercest British bull-dogs stood around, 

At last a mastiff his deep cavern found ; 

Three bull-dogs followed, two of which were slain, 

Before they brought him to the light again. 

A rash young hunter would have thrown his spear, 

But Clifford raised his arm, and cried ff Forbear ! 

The sun has reached not the meridian sky, 

Let there be nobler sport before he die." 

The streams of Wharf roared not in rapid flood, 
But sung in semichorus through the wood. 
The hunters saw him rise the western hill, 
Then those were tried who had true horsemen's skill. 
Clifford stopped not at Wharf to ask how deep, 
When each had swiftly galloped down the steep, ... 
But crossed the ford, and on the sporting day, 
His followers whitened Wharf 's broad streams with 
spray. 

The waters curled around each horse's mane, 
While the beat foam fell on their heads like rain ; 



8 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



But soon all forded safe, and every care 
Was thrown like feathers to the empty air. 

The calling of the Muse is grown so stale, 
And in the foremost lines of every tale, 
Such invocations by each scribbler's penned, 
That she'll no more to poets' prayers attend ; 
Else for her aid would I sincerely pray, 
T' inspire me while I sing that glorious day, 
When swift to Simon Seats' dark rocky height, 
The bristly monster took his rapid flight ; 
Thrice to their prey the noble pack was near, 
As oft he turned, and stopped their speed with fear. 
Since Wharf's clear stream within the Strid was bound, 
The lovely vales ne'er echoed such a sound ; 
Nor all the hunting of the fox and deer 
Could equal this in true heroic cheer. 
The hills and vales in echoing concert sung, 
Till near the rocks the hunters' bows were strung ; 
Then was the glory of the hunting crowned, 
And mastiff, bull-dog, hunter, horse, and hound, 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



9 



All on an acre of the rocky hill, 
Ambitious each the mighty boar to kill. 
Low on the earth the savage monster sate, 
And, sullen, seemed to meet his coming fate : 
Then did the hounds attempt to seize his hide, 
But, weary, thrice fell panting at his side. 
Though better steeds for hunting never met, 
The brightest bays were changed to brown with sweat ; 
And such had been the chase, the stoutest there 
Had scarcely strength to reach him with his spear. 
But brave young Clapham, of old Beamsley Hall, 
Sent the first shaft, which made the monster fall. 
While low was laid the tyrant of the wood, 
Each hound seemed greedy to devour his blood : 
But soon he rose, made frantic with his pain, 
And dared his various foes to approach again ; 
Three hounds he seized, and each resigned his breath, 
Before the mighty monster fell in death. 
Young Clifford, grieved to see his fav'rites dead, 
Took his bright spear,and pierced him through the head. 



10 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



In death his bloody jaws were opened wide, 
While the red foam was thrown on every side ; 
The vale of Barden now with shouting rung — 
This song the harpers have for ages sung : 



Young Clifford, the hunter, who rode on that day, 
From Barden's strong portals first hasted away ; 
His horse was the fleetest that e'er trod the moss, 
And the best that the streams of a river could cross : 
Whether hounds were pursuing the fox or the boar, 
He seldom was left on the wild heathy moor. 

Three times to the Strid his brave master he bore, 

And thrice on that day the deep gulph he leaped o'er. 

Whenever they hunted the boar or the fox, 

The hoofs of his hunter would ring on the rocks : 

A better in Craven there never was tried, 

And none but brave Claphams could come near his side. 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



The foam from his moulh as the feathers he throws, 
Or white as the flakes, when it silently snows ; 
He is fit for the mountain, the valley, or scars, 
And he champs his bright bits when he goes to the 
wars : 

As good as the steed was the rider he bore, 
And his equal in Craven must never be more. 

Strike the harp to his praise, and the praise of the fair, 
May blessings attend them wherever they are ! 
If the soft kiss of peace be the lot of the bride, 
Or the tear-drop of love, when affection is tried, 
When happy at home, or engaged on the field, 
May her prayers be all answered, and heaven his 
shield ! 

The monster dead, the valleys rung with praise, 
In louder shouts than those of modern days ; 
Then from this dreaded powerful beast of prey, 
With Clifford's sword, the head was cut away : 



12 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Then vassal, tenant, shepherd, lord and knight, 
To Barden haste to spend the hunting night. 
Whate'er great Clifford's table could afford, 
Was then enjoyed by vassal, knight and lord ; 
Then o'er old Barden Bridge young Clifford led 
His comrades, shouting, with the monster's head. 

But clouds obscured the fast declining sun, 
To rumble deep the thunder had begun ; 
The pouring torrents, lightning, hail, and rain, 
Hid Whernside's top, and deluged all the plain. 
The mountain rocks, clad in their moss array, 
Reared their high heads, by time half worn away. 
The ponderous blocks were hurried down the steep, 
Hurled o'er the cataracts to the foaming deep. 
Old oaks, which long in Bolton Park had stood, 
Forced from their stations, rolled upon the flood ; 
Those which were weak and tinkling crystal rills, 
Rolled rumbling, foaming, dashing, down the hills, — 
Clothed in a brown and muddy robe of spray, 
Bearing the rocks, like captives forced away. 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



13 



The ponderous bridge, perhaps three centuries old, 
Gave way, and on the dashing flood was rolled, 
And stones which on the battlements had stood, 
Where hurried far down Wharf's deceitful flood ; 
While every torrent, from the heathy brow, 
Gushed in grand cataracts to the floods below. 
The Vale of Desolation was a scene 
Which for long ages never once had been, 
The massive rocks, which had for ages stood, 
Were tossed like pebbles in the boiling flood ; 
The mossy robes torn off they bore for years— 
And left the valley as it now appears, 
Rough, waste, and wild, in every varied form 
Marked with the terrors of the thunder storm. 
The river's brink with withered roots is hunsr, 
Roots which had lived perhaps ere Chaucer sung. 
Broad in the east the sable cloud was spread, 
The lightnings flashed o'er Shevin's lofty head ; 
While o'er the west an azure robe was cast, 
Spangled with stars, which showed the storm was 
past. 



14 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Then mirth began in Barden's ancient hall, 
The huntsman gave again the morning call ; 
Inspired with good old ale his horn he took — 
They shouted till the massive pillars shook, 
When Clifford brought the boar's terrific head, 
With whose huge fangs a thousand deer had bled ; 
Then, as in mirth the evening passed along, 
A Craven warrior sung his favourite song :— 



I have been on the stormy wave, 

And fought upon the gory field ; 
Laid many a warrior in his grave, 

My lovely Jane of Hellifield. 

On northern hills I met the foe, 

Where furious strength my sword did wield, 
And she who made me use it so, 

Was my dear Jane of Hellifield, 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



15 



I thought upon her lovely form, 

And knew 'twas death, should I once yield ; 
Love, honour, glory, like a storm, 

Raged for my Jane of Hellifield. 

I thought each warrior gains the praise 
Of all, if he's the country's shield ; 

Then rushed amid the battle's blaze, 
To fight for Jane of Hellifield. x 

The Highland Scots came boldly forth, 
And bravely did their claymores wield^ 

Fierce as the tempest of the north- 
Then I forgot sweet Hellifield. 

We meet ofttimes, each side pursues, 
And many a steel-cased warrior reeled ; 

At last they fled — I hoped the news 
Would reach my Jane of Hellifield, 



16 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



The English ranks they could not break, 
While these with spears and lances kneeled 

And Scotland's army soon grew weak, 
Or I had ne'er reached Hellifield. 

But, marked with scars, with pension blest,. 
My heart's with scenes of battle steeled ; 

Yet, there's a place within my breast 
That still loves Jane of Hellifield. 

Now will I drink unto my King, 

May subjects ever be his shield, 
And time fly sweetly on the wing 

With me and Jane of Hellifield ! 



The bard was called — to Craven then unknown,, 
Who oft his fingers o'er the harp had thrown ; 
Nature to him had such a genius given, 
That his wild fancy almost soared to heaven. 



LYRE OF EBOR, 



1? 



The bard appears, and with a modest air 

He struck his harp, as merit's self was there ; 

True native genius beamed in either eye, 

And on his lyre hung wildest melody. 

He borrowed not his airs, nor learnt the chords, 

But both composed, while nature brought the words ; 

His harp he touched in ancient concert fine, 

While soft attention hung for every line— 

They hoped to hear some cheerful sportive air, 

But wildly thus he sung, as in despair : — 

The noble hall, where beauty reigns, 
The hall that's now a peaceful home, 

Shall soon be lost, and youth and bliss 
Shall fade, and ruin hither come, 

This night I saw an airy bard 

In martial chords sweep o'er his lyre 

I saw the warrior chiefs prepared, 

In shining arms and bright attire, 
c 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



I saw the lovely lady, fair, 

Weep as she parted with her knight ; 
And heard her breathe to heav'n a prayer 

That heav'n would shield him in the fight. 

I heard the whizzing arrows fly, 

And saw the battle-axes broke ; 
The stoutest of the warriors die, 

When death was victor ev'ry stroke. 

I saw the great portcullis fall, 

Which shook the gateway with its power ; 
Beheld the engines at thy wall, 

Whose force could shake the topmost tower. 

My fancy saw the bloody field, 

Which stretches into yonder plain ; 

On its dread space was many a shield, 
And pale the features of the slain. 



LYRE OF EB0R. 

I thought in this dread scene T stood, 
Though trembling, yet I longed to stay, 

Tho' moonbeams glittered on their blood, 
And plund'rers took their spoil away. 

The harper struck a martial air, 

Ruin and desolation came ; 
A brand was hurled by wild despair, 

And every tow'r was soon on flame. 

Their arms were nerved with dying pain, 
And every blow they struck the last, 

The soldiers lay with nobles slain — 
So this portentous phantom past 

No cheerful strains upon my lyre 
The bard this night can bring to you, 

The scene of Barden, wrapt in fire, 
Has made me think 'twill soon be true. 



20 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Prepare— prepare these arms in rust, 
Bring forth Saint George's banner red f 

These tow'rs must shortly kiss the dust- 
He ceased — and all their joys were fled. 

But Clifford's noble soul was not opprest, 
His father's fire yet glowed within his breast ; 
He said — " Tho' long in rust our arms have lain^ 
Turn point to hilt, they spring out straight again. 
Now let the song of Craven knights be sung 
As when on Scottish shields their weapons rung." 

Come forth from thy hall, gallant Lister, come forth, 
Let thy sons of the Ribble be armed for the north ; 
Tell Tempest, the Borderer's standard is nigh, 
And the downfall of Craven's the Highlanders' cry. 
The shade of some bard late has been near our hall, 
He has sung to the winds that these turrets shall fall; 
But not by the Northerns, for Wharf's crystal flood 
Ere we yield, shall be changed to a torrent of blood. 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



21 



Let Hammerton mount on his high-mettled steed, 
And gather the horsemen of Skipton with speed ; 
Let the Parkers below, in old Bingley's fine vale, 
Bring their followers cased in the brightest of mail. 
Brave Vavasour, rise from thy oak-covered den, 
Blow strong thy old horn, and the best of thy men 
Will be cased in their armour, and as you march near 
Give a shout, and bold Middleton's youths will ap- 
pear ! 

Three times we have seen the great cross of our sires 
Destroyed as a brand in the plunderers' fires ; 
But now we have armour, and now will we stand 
Till the cold grasp of death keeps the sword in each 
hand. 

Shall the pibrochs of Scotland be heard in our vale ? 
Shall the sound of her pipers be borne on the gale ? 
No — each one will meet them where wild rushes wave, 
And, instead of rich plunder, will give them a grave. 



22 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



We have Eshton, as firm as the rocks where he dwells, 
Who has many brave youths on the edge of the fells ; 
They will sound the war chorus till Hartlington know, 
And the red plumes of Craven will wave on his brow. 
The white rocks of Malham were never more strong 
Than the lines of our knights, when once cheered with 
a song ; 

They need but a whisper, they all will awake, 
And the rocks they ride o'er with their horses will 
shake. 

Our children, our lasses, more blithe than the morn, 
Should we yield, they would surely insult us with 
scorn ; 

Our steers and our heifers, our oxen and sheep, 
Would join in the mourning, and help them to weep. 
Where Simon, the warrior, looked down on the vale* 
The flag of green Craven shall wave to the gale ; 
If once drawn our swords, the sun may go down, 
But they shall not return till the day is our own. 



LYRE OF EBOR, 



23 



By Surrey's order, o'er the mountains came 
The gleam of many a beacon's pointed flame. 
Then every knight, and every northern squire 
Soon knew the cause of each portentous fire. 
The blazing pitch on Penighent fell down, 
And old gray Pendle bore a fiery crown ; 
Next Hober blazed, and its once dark brown head 
Shone bright with fire, till Wharf's broad vale was red: 
While Ingleborough, king o'er all the rest, 
Upreared to heav'n his mighty burning crest. 
Then heralds mounted, and rode swift away — 
Through the thick wood the beacons showed the way ; 
While those they left behind took little rest, 
For other thoughts filled every warrior's breast. 

* Our arms must be prepared," brave Clifford cries, 

* And now's the time for every knight to rise !" 
The silver helms the noble ladies took, 

And made them glitter as a crystal brook, 
When springing from a mountain rock it runs, 
And seems to glitter with a thousand suns ; 



24 



LYRE OF EBOR.- 



Then on the whirling stone the swords were laid, 
The metal brightened of each tempered blade ; 
And as they tried each edge with mighty stroke, 
Down fell the boughs from many a stubborn oak. 
As when the woodman, on the mountain top, 
Makes the green honours of the forest drop, 
His tempered axe grows brighter every stroke, 
So stood each sword, and not a blade e'er broke. 

Where Bolton Abbey rears its ancient head, 
The field, ere noon, was quickly changed to red ; 
Brave dauntless Lister brought his hundreds there, 
Who well could wield the sword or sharpened spear. 
Pudsay and Hammerton, and Heber brought 
Strong lusty warriors, who as bravely fought; 
While Parker led his followers o'er the moor, 
Shouting to see their comrades were before. 
Though not adorned with lace of shining gold, 
They each could fight as Britons fought of old ; 
Fearless of death, each bore a dauntless mind, 
Which priests had blest, but learning not refined. 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



25 



The best old ale the Abbey could afford 
Was brought in plenty to the warrior's board ; 
Wives, daughters, mothers, deep in grief were sunk, 
But Craven youths grew cheerful as they drunk ; 
Told wives and lovers never more to mourn — 
All crowned with fame, with Clifford would return. 
The word was given, and as they marched along, 
Huzza'd, and left old Bolton with a song 



We all will bravely stand, my lord, 
Or where's our homes and lasses, 

If Scottish Jamie with his sword 
But once through Craven passes ? 

Let us meet them o'er the Tweed, 
And fight for fame and glory ; 

And if our men are doomed to bleed, 
Let Scotland's plains be gory. 



26 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



At every village we march through, 

Our numbers are increasing ; 
And England, if we beat the foe, 

Will give us all her blessing. 

If, leagued with France, they would come down, 

To rob our halls and burn 'em ; 
Like mountain sheep, when once we meet 

We'll kill, or take, or turn 'em, 



Old Scotland's army had marched boldly forth, 
Crossed o'er the Borders, and laid waste the north ; 
But dauntless Bulmer, with his little band, 
Re-took their spoils, and drove them from the land. 
Eight times his numbers Bulmer met in fight, 
And Scots' great Hume just saved himself by flight; 
But, as some drops oft fall before the shower, 
So this but warning gave of Scotland's power : 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



27 



Her army, then a hundred thousand strong, 
Shaded the mountains as they marched along ; 
Led by their king, their bosoms were on flame 
For England's downfall, plunder, and for fame. 

'Twas this great Clifford from Earl Surrey heard, 
Then marched to meet them, nor their numbers feared, 
The trumpets sound, the cheerful hautboys play, 
As o'er the mountains Clifford leads the way ; 
The tale goes round in mirth, while others sing, 
And when they halt, their bed's the purple ling ; 
And there they slept, tho' not on softest down, 
Yet more at peace than he that wore the crown. 
Six days they marched o'er mountains, rivers, rills. 
Ere they met Percy on old Branston Hills. 
Percy and Howard much rejoiced to see 
Clifford lead up his horse and infantry ; 
Dacres and Stanley welcomed every knight. 
Whose loyal men had come so far to fight 
Then Surrey gave to Percy, and the lords, 
And those they led, these energetic words 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



" Howard and Dacres, Percy, Clifford, Scroop, 
In you is placed your country's firmest hope ; 
Let Yorkshire knights their ancient valour shew, 
And Durham's sons stand firm, though these be few! 
Sons of old Cumbria, your brave valour show, 
And, Westmoreland, lay many a Scotsman low ! 
Clifford ! all Craven youths I leave to thee — 
Fight like your fathers, yours is victory !" 
The eagles from Helvellyn's craggy height, 
Spread their broad wings, and hastened to the fight ; 
And from the rocks which overhang Lowdore, 
(Where in all forms the bursting cataracts roar) 
Croaked the dark ravens, as they flew away, 
To feast at Flodden, on that bloody day. 

The pibrochs sound, and every kelted clan 
Grasped their broad claymores ere the fight began ; 
A thousand flashes from their blades arise, 
Thick as the stars, when frost has cleared the skies. 
With shining mail, and with a steed of fire, 
From Barden went the noble-hearted Swire. 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



29 



With horse and harness rode the sons of Canv 
Stout, brave, and fierce, as ever went to war. 
From Langcliffe rode the fiery-hearted Browne, 
Whose well-aimed shafts twice forty Scots struck 
down. 

Fearful at first the meeting armies close, 
But fear soon fled, and fierce confusion rose. 
Brookden and Hammond, and determined Chew, 
Through ranks of Scots like fiery meteors flew. 
Garforth and Eastburn, Currer, Shaw, and Wood, 
Fought till their horses' hoofs were wet with blood. 
All those who would describe that bloody day, 
Must from a task so mournful turn away. 
Describe till death, no living mortal can 
Give a true picture of each varied clan. 
'Twas such a day as ne'er can be forgot 
While live the lines of great Sir Walter Scott. 
But I, an humble bard, had Flodden left, 
Had not great Clifford many an helmet cleft ; 
And led a thousand warriors to the field, 
Stout sons of Craven, who would never yield, 



30 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



But Homer has such mighty battles sung, 
Virgil and Lucan their grand harps have strung 
To sing of Dido and Pharsalia's plain, 
That few new thoughts for humbler bards remain. 
To greater fancies humbly will I leave 
The fight where many bosoms ceased to heave. 
'Twas fierce as rage could blow revengeful fire — 
'Twas deadly as the grave could e'er desire ; 
The field so gory, that the birds of prey 
A moment stopped, then, sated, flew away. 
There many a mother wandered near the field, 
For fear the sons of Scotia should yield. 
The mourning virgins see the battle's shock, 
Their eyes just raised o'er some adjacent rock- 
Trembling, when sounds of battle reach their ear, 
Lest some dear father should lie slaughtered there. 
Not like a battle where the warriors are 
Wounded or slain in hostile lands afar, 
Stretched bloody, cold, and pale, in deadly sleep, 
With none to close their eyes — with none to weep. 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



31 



Then fled the Scottish chiefs, and all was still, 
Save dying groans on Flod den's gory hill. 
Frantic among the slain the ladies ran, 
To seek the wounded of each varied clan. 
" Ochin Iro !" in Highland accents broke, 
When youths were found, which never more awoke ; 
And many a Highland maid, in snowy vest, 
Stained it with purple on a bleeding breast, 
While banners of the victors waved on high, 
And trumpets sounded o'er the victory. 

The sons of Craven, anxious, marched away, 
To tell at home the glory of the day ; 
Marton rejoiced, and Langcliffe youths were glad, 
But Halton's warriors marched but slow and sad ; 
Few were their numbers— they had left the best 
Cold on the field — Smith, Burley, Shyres, and West. 
Garforths had fought till all their horses fell, 
But at their side were Tempest, Scott, and Stell, 
Or these four brothers had at once been slain, 
Nor hunted in the vale of Aire again. 



32 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Hundreds of names with care great Clifford kept 
Of those who centuries in the dust have slept, 
Who fought at Flodden, by their chieftain led, 
Nor sheathed their swords till every foe was fled. 
Marton sent forth bold Arnold in his mail, 
Four noble Tennants fought from Longstrodale ; 
Hawkswick and Flasby, and old Hellifield, 
Sent Listers, who were never known to yield. 
Arncliffe and Sutton of the triumph shared, 
For these had sons who dangers never feared ; 
Old Giggleswick, beneath her craggy scar, 
Had fifty sons, who bravely fought in war. 
Stackhouse and Preston, with the bow and bill, 
Fought, with the Brayshaws, on old Flodden hill ; 
The Summerscales, from Settle, cut their way 
Through files of Scots on that eventful day ; 
And Keighley's warriors, led by Smith and Hall, 
Unparted fought, and made the Northerns fall. 
When these brave youths with Clifford marched away 
O'er misty mountains, till the closing day, 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



33 



They slept near fires of rushes, turf, and peat, 
One side quite cold, the other scorched with heat ; 
Helmets their kettles, and a spear their fork, 
To turn the chop, the steak, or roasting pork : 
And who would scorn to have the supper there, 
With triumph, health, an appetite, and beer ? 

When rose the sun, and crimson was the morn, 
While light and shade the western hills adorn, 
The clouds of mist slow through the valleys rolled, 
Tinged with the morning, like a sea of gold. 
As in the east the beams of light advance, 
Like burnished gold shines every polished lance ; 
All faces then a joyful aspect wear, 
When native hills and native vales appear. 

The heralds soon arrived at Barden tower, 
And told the downfal of proud Scotland's power ; 
The virgins dance, the aged butler sings, 
And Wharf's fine vale with shouts of triumph rings, 



34 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



All Craven knows, as swift as sounds can fly — 
Shout answers shout, that there's a victory ! 
Methinks I see the ploughman leave his plough, 
The loyal farmer lay aside his hoe ; 
The churn is stopped, while listening stands the maid 
The aged ditcher rests upon his spade ; 
While jocund youths, rejoicing, leave their play, 
Shout o'er the fields — to Barden haste away ; 
The frugal dame, who spins, some wealth to save, 
Looks to the towers, and sees the banners wave. 
Then on the hill which overhangs the vale, 
First glitters Clifford's bright and shining mail ; 
While on each head the plumes of Craven dance., 
A thousand flashes varying from each lance. 
The victors' shout is answered in the woods, 
And echo bears the triumph down the floods ; 
Sweetly the mellow bells of Bolton rung, 
Woods, hills, and dales, in joyful concert sung. 
Panting, the nymphs and swains the hill ascend, 
To meet a lover, brother, or a friend, 



LYRE OF EBOR, 



35 



And many an armed head is turned aside 

In loving glance to his intended bride. 

Among the number, beautiful and fair, 

Was Ann of Kildwick, on the banks of Aire ; 

The ring was bought, she bore it in her breast, 

And went to see her youth among the rest. 

The Skipton troop rode past — he was not there, 

The hardy sons of Wharfdale next appear ; 

She views each helmet, and is sore afraid, 

But can't discern her lover's fine cockade, 

Formed of the ribands which once decked her head, 

But stained at Flodden, when her warrior bled. 

She asked his fate, while heaved her snowy breast— 

Her lover's comrade thus the maid addressed : — 

u Anna, the worst prepare thyself to hear, 

Nor ever hope to see thy Henry near. 

We left him bleeding, and too near his heart 

Were the dark feathers of a Scottish dart; 

Hopeless, I watched him till he closed his eyes, 

Sunk, scarcely breathing, never more to rise. 



36 



LYRE OF EBOR, 



Thus was he left upon the Northern hill, 

His features pale — his pulse, his heart, were still.'* 

Poets may sing of woe, and painters try 

To place the tear of sorrow on the eye ; 

Poets and orators, and painters too, 

Would fail, though greatest — hers was Nature's woe 

Such as we feel when all on earth is done, 

Our hopes all blasted, and all pleasures gone. 

Poor Anna ! yet methinks I see her stand, 

The ring he bought her shining in her hand, 

And his last letter blotted o'er with tears, 

While on her cheeks the hectic flush appears : 

But 'twas not long the virgin had to mourn, 

Her soul soon met him over death's cold bourne; 

Soon did she fade, and never smiled again, 

But sung these verses over Henry slain : — 

Thou purple heather, on the rocky fells, 

Wither and droop, and hang thy head like me 

Bloom not, ye cowslips, with your honied bells, 
But fade and weep o'er Anna's misery ! 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



37 



Ye opening daisies, every eyelid close ! 

Ye skylarks, chaunt, but in the minor key ! 
Ye thrushes, mourn, as if ye felt my woes — 

Sing, all ye birds, of Anna's misery ! 

Thou thorn, where last we met, no blossoms bear ! 

Thou garden, if fine flowers should bloom in thee, 
May pinks and roses bend with many a tear, 

And lilies weep o'er Anna's misery! 

This earth has nothing now this heart to cheer — 

No bliss with him but in eternity, 
When Henry comes, my mourning soul to cheer, 

And take me with him from this misery. 

O, Henry ! if thou canst on Anna wait, 

Or canst petition heaven to set me free, 
Let my tired spirit soon regain its mate, 
And bid farewell to earth and misery. 



38 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



O, cruel warrior of the furious North ! 

What had my youthful Henry done to thee, 
That thou shouldst send the fatal arrow forth, 

When on its point was Anna's misery ? 

Could I but tell where cold in earth he lies, 
My youth, who helped to gain the victory ! 

There would I weep till death had closed these eyes 
And this sad heart forgot its misery. 

Time, spread thy wings !— I know not where he lies 
Haste with my spirit to the bridal day ! 

Come, lovely death, and close these weeping eyes 
Come, Henry, bear thy Anna's soul away ! 

Thus did she mourn and wander in the vale, 
Till echo learnt her melancholy tale ; 
But few her days that mournfully she sung, 
Her garland soon was in the Abbey hung. 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



39 



The Hall of Barden now shines rich in state, 
Her warriors march in triumph through her gate ; 
The ancient bard upon the rampart stands, 
The willing strings obey their master's hands ; 
With eyes of rapture, loud their deeds he sings, 
As if his soul was living in the strings. 
All joined the chorus, till the neighbouring wood 
Echoed their song to Wharfs fine rolling flood. 

The song was ended — and brave Clifford sprung 
From his black charger, and his armour rung ; 
The arms of Tempest answered to the sound, 
And spears and scabbards clashed upon the ground. 
Each brave foot-soldier then his arms uprears, 
Till in the court they form a pile of spears. 
The warriors enter, each a welcome guest — 
The brave are ever worthy of a feast ; 
The strength of England, beef in Craven fed, 
The spacious horns, with foam upon each head ; 
Ale such as slew grief, anguish, care, and woe — 
Such as they brewed three hundred years ago. 



40 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Bereft of sons, the mothers came to mourn, 
For many went who never could return ; 
The sorrowing fathers left the scene of mirth, 
To seek the dead, ere they were lain in earth. 
The harper's lyre, the victor's patriot song, 
The widow's grief more poignant made and strong ; 
Music brought sorrow — triumph brought a tear — 
Despair still whispering, " O ! my son's not here !" 
And, pale the widow stood, with grief opprest, 
The child, unconscious, smiling at her breast. 
Such are the mournful scenes the warriors see, 
Though triumph crowns their arms with victory ; 
Such feasts in days gone by have often been, 
With bursts of joy, and mournful thoughts between — 
Joy for the conquest, then the solemn strain 
Swelled on the lyre, as dirges o'er the slain. 

What names extinct, and families no more, 
Since Craven youths the vales and hills marched o'er 
Some names, who then to nothing could aspire, 
Are titled now with baron, knight, or squire ; 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



While those who noblest courage there displayed, 
Are hid in Time's impenetrable shade — 
Those who from Barden cheerful marched away, 
To reach their homes the next approaching day, 
When, through respect, the ladies carried far, 
For those they loved, the weapons used in war. 
One youth a quiver takes, and proudly walks, 
While of the battle his brave brother talks ; 
Another in a helmet takes delight, 
And sore regrets he was not at the fight. x 
Thus to their hamlet each one hastes away, 
To tell their kindred of the bloody day ; 
Mothers, expectant, saw their sons return, 
Wept tears of joy, and there forgot to mourn. 
Peace and soft rural charms the warriors greet, 
And Scotland never more durst Craven meet. 
When Sabbath comes, to Bolton each repair, 
And praise is followed by the fervent prayer ; 
Warrior and yeoman, peasant, join the throng, 
And help to make the Jubilate strong ; 



42 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



And hundreds went on Clifford's form to gaze, 
Who for the triumph gave his God the praise. 

O Bolton, what a change ! but still thou art 
Noble in ruin, great in every part ! 
When we behold thee, signs of grandeur, gone, 
Live on thy walls, and shine on every stone ; 
Thy shades are lovely through each varied day, 
Thy rocks, thy woods, thy streams, where beauties play ; 
Lovely, when, rosy in the east, the sun 
Shows the high hills the cheerful day's begun. 
Throughout the day, in all the hours which shine, 
Peace, beauty, and rich scenery are thine ; 
But, when the evening shades, like curtains, are 
Thrown o'er the wheels of day's resplendent car ; 
When the broad moon, as tho' she rose to see 
The hoary columns of antiquity ; 
Then, solemn grandeur greets the changing queen, 
And Wharf's reflection helps to light the scene. 
At every well-selected point of view, 
Fresh scenes appear, as beautiful as new ; 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



43 



There the broad river shining 1 with the sun, 
And there the streams in eddying circles run : 
Deep roars the Strid in snow-white robe of spray, 
At rest below the wearied waters stay. 
Thus have I seen the rock- verged deep at rest, 
The foam, like marble, varying on its breast ; 
The ivy bower, secure from summer's heat, 
For contemplation, what a blest retreat ! 
Where the gray ruin, and each varied hill, 
Exceed in beauty fine descriptive skill. 
There may the rural poet sit and write, 
The learned astronomer survey the night ; 
The love-sick lover here may sit and dream, 
Lulled to his slumber by the murmuring stream : 
But streams and woods, and waterfalls and flowers, 
Lovers' retreats, rich lawns, and shady bowers, 
Have all been sung in lovers' verse so fine, 
No room is left to hold another line. 

Muse of the sylvan shades, if yet thou dwell 
Amid those scenes which make my bosom swell, 



44 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Descend, and to my pensive mind impart 

Such thoughts as thrill the breast and warm the heart 

To sweetest measure tune my humble lyre, 

Since Bolton's groves demand the purest fire ! 

The brave, the good, the noble warrior, now 

Sleeps with his fathers in the tomb below ; 

The noble Clifford now no more can be 

True to his king in honest loyalty ; 

The earl has left his helmet, sword, and shield, 

And rides no more, undaunted, to the field, 

To combat treason in its darkest form, 

And meet, unmoved, the Northern's fiercest storm. 

Peace to the dust of those who bravely fight 

In honour's cause, and for their country's right ; 

In praise of such the bard should ever sing, 

Whose duty tells them to defend their king ; 

And worthy is the baron, knight, or lord, 

Who in his country's cause unsheaths his sword 1 

Such lovely scenes has Wharfdale to enjoy, 

When war is changed to peace and rural joy; 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



45 



Here can the aged spend a peaceful day, 

Beguile sad grief, and to their Maker pray ; 

The widow, weeping o'er departed love, 

Is helped to mourn by many a mourning dove ; 

And hidden here from any mortal's ken, 

May weep in silence o'er the best of men, 

Whose care, and joys, and sorrows, hopes, and fears, 

Had bound them closer through successive years. 

Here might the poet, Nature's " helpless child," 

Whose soul is boundless, and whose thoughts are wild, 

Imagine things beyond the torrid zone, 

And how the ancient Grecian temples shone ; 

How earth, and every orb, was formed on high, 

Till his full soul burst out in extasy : — 

" Ye trees, ye leaves, and every varied flower, 

Were nothing else, ye show Eternal Power ! 

The verdant grass on every hill that grows, 

The goodness of the great Creator shows ! 

Insects and birds, that dwell amid the grove, 

The creeping worm, and those that soar above ; 



46 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



All beasts, however varied their abode, 
Proclaim the power, the majesty of God ! 
The shining orbs, that deck the arch of night, 
Orb above orb, till distance dims their light ; 
Planets by circling motions show his skill, 
While others burn thro' ages and are still." 
G rand are the heav'ns unto the feeble eye ; 
But when the poet can the tube apply, 
New wonders open, and new worlds appear, 
Which tell the mind Infinity is there ! 
Lost in the thought, his ardent fancy burns, 
He thinks — and to himself with reverence turns ; 
His soul is filled with solemn hopes and fears, 
To think he's co-existent with the spheres ! 
E'en when no more one ray of light they give, 
His bosom holds what must for ever live, 
When sun, and moon, and stars, and skies are lost, 
And Nature's self is to old Chaos tost ! 

Now as the Wharf to Olicano moves, 
And leaves the rocky Strid and Bolton's groves, 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



47 



Old Castleberg, the torrent- wasted scar, 
Uprears his head, where Romans met in war, 
When on its topmost point the watch-tower stood, 
And deep below, beheld the tumbling flood. 
Britons and Saxons have contended there, 
And on the ramparts mixed spear with spear ; 
The warriors, tumbling headlong down the steep, 
Pressed with their armour, plunged into the deep : 
But Time, who leaves behind all earthly things, 
And overtakes fresh objects with his wings, 
Has left so far behind swift-pinioned Fame, 
She could not reach us with a warrior's name. 

Through shades of oak which have for centuries 
grown, 

Wharf winds her way to Ilkley's ancient town ; 
No altars now unto her streams are raised, 
As when the Roman sacrifices blazed ; 
Yet she rolls on, when Romans are no more, 
Un worshipped, hastes to mix with ocean's roar. 



48 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



More worthy is the mighty King of all, 
Who raises kingdoms, speaks — and empires fall ; 
Who made all systems, and who formed the sun, 
Who spoke, and bade yon crystal fountain run, 
Praise to receive, and glory, power, and might, 
Through Time, and in the blissful realms of light ! 

Ilkley, thy healthy mountains, wells, and air, 
Can cure the nervous, trembling in despair ! 
Upon thy crags, to climb the granite rocks, 
And see the sportive youths pursue the fox, 
Would make the trembling limbs be firm again, 
And banish Melancholy and her train. 
To thee, how many on their crutches come, 
Soon dance without them, and run smiling home ; 
Then to their friends in highest raptures tell 
How strength improved at Ilkley and its well. 
Here they can walk amid the valley fine, 
The angler into crystal throw his line, 
And watch the trout, tho' in the water deep — 
Behold his eyes, which ne'er are closed in sleep : 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



49 



Peace, Love, and Solitude near Ilkley dwell, 
And Health sits smiling at her mountain well : 
Thus did she sit, and made this vale her home, 
Before invading- Caesar marched from Rome. 

Denton, thou rural village, little known, 
Thou once hadst warriors who could shake a throne ! 
When Fairfax, with a patriot feeling strong, 
Was led by false designing Cromwell wrong, 
A race courageous from thy shades arose, 
Who feared nor foreign nor domestic foes. 
In civil war, the numerous fields were red 
Where Fairfax fought, and where his brothers bled ; 
But now 'tis peace, no warriors from thy hall 
Ride forth in armour at the trumpet's call. 
How blest the land, when martial days are o'er, 
Like those of Towton or of Marston Moor ; 
When regal power, when law was laid aside, 
And Britons by the swords of Britons died ! 



E 



50 LYRE OF EBOR. 

From Marston to old Tockwith spread the line 
Of thsoe who fought against the royal sign ; 
The stout right wing Sir Thomas Fairfax led, 
And seemed another Hector at its head ; 
Lord Fairfax led the centre to the fray, 
The left, proud Cromwell's stern commands obey. 
Down in the plain the royal army stood, 
Who for their monarch soon must shed their blood ; 
True loyalty was spread from wing to wing, 
And each forgave the follies of his king. 
Dreadful the sight, when thus two armies meet, 
All friendly feelings sunk beneath their feet, 
And those who hung upon the self-same breast, 
Taught by one father, by one mother blest, 
Waiting the signal for the deadly fray, 
Where brothers take their kindred's lives away ! 
But so 'twas here, when young Prince Rupert led 
The right wing, brave as e'er a banner spread. 
While General Goring led the centre on, 
To meet the Scots, as oft their sires had done, 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



51 



Lucas and Porter often rode to cheer 

The wings, the centre, vanguard, and the rear ; 

While those who marched at great Newcastle's word, 

Were brave as any that unsheathed the sword. 

Now ready stood each fierce embattled host, 

When all distinction in their dress was lost, 

When handkerchiefs, and slips of red or white, 

Were all that showed the king's-men whom to fight. 

The trumpet sounded, and the march began, 

Fairfax and Cromwell leading forth the van ; 

Th' usurper cried — " For battle all prepare !" 

Then the arch-hypocrite breathed forth a prayer ; 

As if Omnipotence could smile to see 

Britons from Britons gain a victory. 

While CromwelPs files marched rapid down the hill, 

Firm in their lines the Royalists were still ; 

With no impetuous haste Lord Goring led — 

The foes appeared, but not a kingVman fled. 

Now front to front the hostile armies are, 
Each bosom feels the dread of civil war ; 



52 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Awful the silence — not a sound is heard 
Of drum, or trumpet, or commander's word, 
But just a solemn hum before they fire, 
For brothers wished from brothers to retire ; 
And, truly, but for Cromwell's haughty pride, 
All had been friends, and not a warrior died. 
What anxious breasts were left in every hall, 
Lest the loved lord should in the conflict fall ! 
The lady, often, with her children prays 
For heav'n's protection in the battle's blaze, 

As when a thunder storm the valley fills, 
The rapid rivers tumble from the hills, 
Falling impetuous from each rocky height, 
So rushed the host of Cromwell to the fight. 
The Royalists, tho' few, like ramparts stood ; 
Or, as the sea-beat rock defies the flood, 
From their close-serried files no warriors fled — 
Their firmness struck proud Cromwell's host with dread: 
His legions shout, then swift the ramparts scale, 
And meet the Royalists with shot like hail ; 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



53 



But when the brave young Rupert spurred his horse, 
The royal army burst with such a force, 
Their foes gave way — but Fairfax, quick as thought, 
Wheeled round his steed, and man with man they 
fought. 

As when young lions some fierce tigers meet, 

With fiery eye-balls, and with gory feet, 

Which strive at once the royal beast to slay, 

And, unmolested, plunder for their prey, 

So came the Scots ; — but Rupert, like a flood, 

O'erwhelmed thebold, and stained their flags with blood. 

As when on seas two rolling channels fight, 

And furious waves are turned to foaming white, 

Thus did they meet, swords clashing 'gainst the spears, 

Till Major Fairfax in the slain appears ; 

Till not a weapon but with gore was red — 

So fought both wings, till great Sir Thomas fled. 

When Pompey fled on famed Pharsalia's plain, 

In such a space were fewer warriors slain. 

The noble Prince, whose loyalty was warm, 

O'erwhelmed the sons of Scotland like a storm ! 



54 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



But see Lord Goring the firm centre lead, 
While firm they follow his dark prancing steed ; 
Deep are their lines, their spears stand thick as corn 
And Cromwell's musquetry they meet with scorn ; 
Close are their ranks, so thick the warriors stand, 
And hard the spears are grasped in ev'ry hand, 
Rushing like fire, or, as the lightning red, 
They met their foes, and Cromwell's centre fled ! 
Again the brave Sir Thomas Fairfax turns, 
Meets Rupert's columns, and the battle burns. 
The lines are broken — muskets useless lie, 
Swords clash on swords, the balls no longer fly — 
Rage, horror, death, revenge, and wounds and blood 
Swelled the confusion of the battle's flood ! 
With more determined rage no armies met, 
Nor earth with nobler gore was ever wet. 
At length, o'ercome, brave Fairfax flies again, 
Wounded himself, and his brave brother slain : 
Thus Rupert fought, tho' loth to take the field, 
Yet, when once warmed, his heart would never yield 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Now victory seemed the Royalists to crown — 
The banners of their foes were trampled down ; 
The noble files whom valiant Porter led, 
O'erwhelmecl all force, and every General fled. 
But as the thunder storm, when once 'tis past, 
Turns with a ten-fold fury on the blast, 
While quiv'ring in the cloud the flashes blaze, 
And make the boldest that they dare not gaze, 
So came proud Cromwell, leading on the horse, 
Dark as the storm — what could withstand his fore 
The Trojan warriors never better stood, 
The Grecian phalanx never was as good, 
As those brave men, who for their sov'reign bled, 
And conquered oft, when great Newcastle led ! 
The heaviest charges of their foes they met, 
And each succeeding charge their foes w r ere beat 
Nor would they fly, nor would a warrior yield, 
Till half their numbers fell upon the field. 
Then, let not Cromwell of the victory boast — - 
He need not glory that his foes had lost • 



56 



LYRE OF EEOR. 



For had the Prince been there, he ne'er had fled 

Ere Cromwell's self and half his host had bled. 

Methinks I hear him, when the armies cease, 

Speaking, deceitful, in such words as these : — 

"O! why should war, why should the sword and spear, 

And hostile armies in the field appear P 

Why should the haughty pride of man destroy 

Youth, strength, and beauty, and a parent's joy ? 

Has not disease itself a rapid way 

To turn the greatest mortals into clay, 

But rage, and armour, battle-axe, and fire, 

Against the race of mortals must conspire ? 

The soldier at the front of battle smiles, 

Steps o'er the slain, to close the broken files ; 

His fame, his honour, then his chiefest care, 

And little leisure has he left for prayer : 

A spear may pierce him, or a bullet flies 

Swift to his heart—the warrior falls and dies. 

When shall the lovely days of peace appear, 

That sheaths the falchion, and that breaks the spear ? 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



I praise thee !" and much more the usurper said, 
Which never reached ten fathoms o'er his head ; 
For God delights not in his creatures' pain, 
Nor will he hear his praise sung o'er the slain. 

With luckless fate, and in an evil hour, 
The haughty conquered, not by skill or power, 
But by superior numbers gained the day, 
While braver youths were driven far away ; 
Youths, who their triple number often met, 
And fought till all their swords with gore were wet. 
Dacres and Lambton fell upon that day, 
And Slingsly's noble soul was sent away ; 
Fenwick was lost, and Luddon was no more, 
And Gledhill's corpse was scarcely known for gore. 
Meetham, the brave, the loyal volunteer, 
Heaved his last breath for his loved monarch there ; 
Then with near thirty wounds brave Graham bled, 
Who never in the fiercest contest fled ; 
To Norton Hall his warriors bear him slow — 
Then what a scene of undescribed woe ! 



58 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



I hear his Lady's sighs — she cannot weep — 
Hope, love, despair, sink in her bosom deep ; 
The bleeding stops — she hopes her lord will live. 
And for his life would every blessing give. 
Now a bright beam is lighted in his eyes, 
Then pale, the brave, the dauntless Graham sighs 
The statues of the ancients ne'er could show 
Such silent grief, such eloquence of woe, 
As in his lady's features were exprest, 
When the last struggle shook her warrior's breast 
When the last kiss inhaled the parting breath, 
And all she loved on earth was still in death ! 
Slowly and sad the weeping servants come, 
With noiseless feet, and look into the room, 
To hear their master's voice, or once behold 
The features of the loyal, brave, the bold ; 
But these no more behold his piercing eyes — 
The only sounds are broken-hearted sighs 
Of his sad widow, in wild agony, 
In fervent prayer, that death would set her free. 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



59 



Boast not, usurping Cromwell, o'er the dead — 
With half his wounds thy bravest knights had fled. 

Prince Rupert, then, whose valour ne'er would yield, 
Again returns, in hopes to gain the field ; 
The firmest of his troops resolved to lie 
Cold on the field, or gain the victory ! 
But not a friend they met — these all were fled, 
Except the wounded, dying, and the dead ; 
While foes in thousands, stretched upon the plain, 
Showed e'en the noblest effort would be vain. 
He had a heart, and such had all his men, 
They had not shrunk t' have met them one to ten ; 
But when five hundred must engage a host, 
E'en Cromwell's self must own the day w as lost. 
When in the west the sun in grief had sunk, 
That Marston Moor such noble blood had drunk, 
The troops of Cromwell had no quarters nigh, 
For Yorkshire then was friend to Royalty. 
Through every line the haughty conqueror rode, 
Exhorting all to give the praise to God ! 



60 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Thanking the men who had the victory gained, 
When far from balls and swords the Earl* remained. 
He seemed to mourn the day so far was gone, 
That nothing for the wounded could be done ; 
But, if they waited till the break of day, 
All shattered limbs should then be cut away ; 
Balls be extracted, every wound be clrest — 
Both friends and foes with surgeons should be blest ! 
Then well to sup he gallopped off the ground, 
Felt not the pain, for he received no wound : 
And so it is in battles, nine for ten, 
Leaders get praise, and victory's gained by men. 
The scene was awful, when the light began 
To shine on features gory, pale, and wan ; 
Some, who had plundered in the shades of night, 
Slunk swift away, as tho' to shun the light. 
When morning, with a crimson colour, spread 
Her beams upon six thousand w arriors dead, 
What would the feelings be of those who sought 
A son or husband, who had bravely fought P 

* Earl of Manchester. 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



61 



What shrieks were heard among the ghastly dead, 
Whilst many a widow raised her husband's head, 
O'erwhelmed with woe — of every hope bereft, 
And nothing but her starving children left ! 
These were the scenes on Marston's gory plain, 
And such would be in Anarchy's proud reign. 
Witness old Spain, when she was stained with gore, 
When France sent rivers crimsoned to the shore, 
Till tides of ocean, bearing back her guilt, 
Upbraided her with all the blood she spilt ; 
When the red bolts through Italy were hurled, 
And half destroyed the Garden of the world ; 
And Moscow's blaze, amid the snowy field, 
Ere Russia to the pride of France would yield, 
When Nature's self was armed with frost and sno w, 
And slew what Russians never could lay low. 

When war the sword had borne through every land, 
No hostile feet durst ever press the sand 
Where rolling tides had washed old Albion's coast, 
Nor durst they on the seas with Nelson boast, 



62 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Where Albion's waves upon the shores are broke,, 
And her deep thunder sleeps in heart of oak ! 
Oh ! could that thunder rise into the cloud, 
And deepest darkness hide it like a shroud, 
That these might pass unnoticed through the air, 
And save a noble people from despair ! 
Oh ! that each mortar, and each heavy piece, 
Might send its thunder in defence of Greece ! 
And Britons unto Corinth lend her aid, 
While Athens sees Saint George's flags displayed; 
Great Homer's spirit see the tyrants slain, 
And wish to sing of Grecian wars again ; 
Clinton his Hector, his artillery 
The Gods of Greece, deep thundering from the sky 
The Turks would fly when British shot was rained, 
And Greeks behold what ancient Homer feigned. 
Oh ! could we save old Grecia from her woes, 
For slavery give her triumph o'er her foes ! 
She worships at the self-same sacred shrine, 
Believes that Saviour, Britain, that is thine. 



LYRE OF EBOR, 



63 



Where now her sculptured columns? where that 
tongue, 

In which her warriors spoke, her poets sung P 
All gone ! — and youth gain wisdom from the land, 
But let it sink beneath the spoiler's hand ! 
Europe ! ye kings ! could you but hear her cry, 
Would you withhold from Greece her liberty ? 
Thousands of Britons feel their bosoms burn 
To take the dust of Athens from her urn, 
Throw it toward heav'n, till all her warriors see 
Old Corinth triumph — ev'ry Grecian free. 
Were great Demosthenes to speak one hour, 
The very slaves would scorn the Turkish power ; 
And were the troops of old Britannia there, 
Crescents would fall, and Moslems disappear. 
O that the day would dawn that brings to thee, 
Land of the brave, thy ancient liberty ! 
Then would thy bold improving language tell 
How Britons fought, how Turkish tyrants fell. 



64 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Return, wild fancy, what is Greece to ttiee ? 
Thine be the task to paint antiquity ; 
Let Harewood's mutilated towers be sung, 
Gray with old Time, with sober ivy hung — 
Home of brave hunters, warriors, and the fair, 
When mirth and song, and merry dance were there. 
Here, in the ruins, sat the rustic bard, 
Whose way through life was sorrowful and hard, 
Still were the winds, and beautiful the night, 
While in a large half circle spread the light, 
The herald to the moon, night's modest queen, 
Whose waning orb soon in the east was seen. 
The shadows of the towers and rising wood 
Stretched thro' the vale and trembled on the flood ; 
But as she rose, the trembling shades withdrew, 
And showed the silvery Wharf broad in the view ; 
With wandering weary, tired with study deep, 
The poet's eyes were soon sealed fast in sleep. 
He dreamt of airy praise, of empty fame, 
And to his fancy ancient History came ; 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



65 



A mural crown was placed upon her head, 

A link-mail cuirass o'er her breast was spread, 

A belt of silvered silk around her waste, 

From end to end with Saxon verses graced ; 

Saxo-Monastic words were on her vest — 

The cross was ruby that adorned her breast ; 

A scroll of ancient parchment there she spread, 

While to the poet's fancy thus she said : — 

" Take courage, youth, and I will give to thee 

These dark-writ pages of antiquity ; 

Here are the records of these ancient towers — - 

No mortals fear, but try thy utmost powers. 

Each passage read, nor o'er thy weakness mourn, 

Strike thy wild harp, and soon will I return : 

Let bold heroic measures be thy strain, 

Sing on, nor think thy song will be in vain. 

Take up thy harp — why is it thus unstrung ? 

'Tis thou must sing of deeds which ne'er were sung!" 

The bard arose, as sweet she tuned his strings, 

Then swiftly spread abroad her airy wings ; 



F 



66 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



The moon-beams glittered on her robes of light, 

But quick as lightning was the transient sight. 

When he beheld the Saxon language there, 

To him 'twas sealed — he sighed, and dropped a tear. 

Awhile next day he in his grot reposed, 

Then in despair the ancient records closed ; 

Anon, these words, borne on the wings of air, 

Came softly whispering — "Never yet despair; 

Why do these records fill thy breast with pain ? 

The latter will the former part explain. 

There's not a bard that here his harp has strung. 

But every verse is there, that e'er he sung ; 

There's not a tale of love, or lady fair, 

But all their sorrows are in verses there : — 

Nature attends, thy bosom to inspire, 

And in thy bosom is a spark of fire, 

That spite of coldest ice or frozen snow 

They heap upon it, brighter yet will glow." 



He heard no more, but many a leaf he turned, 
When soon his lightened heart with rapture burned. 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



The poet's muse had led him to the foam 
Which is the sculpture o'er the sailor's tomb ; 
Where rolling thunder forms the sable cloud, 
Which wraps the sinking vessel like a shroud, 
Mocks the dread roaring of the raging deep, 
When wild despair forbids the sailors weep. 
There did he sing, as tho' he saw the storm, 
Its varying terrors rage in every form. 
He saw great JEtna to the clouds aspire, 
Which seemed to set the arch of night on fire ; 
While on each hand the boiling waves appear 
Red with the light, as if the flames were there. 
Scylla below, the thunders from above, 
Volcanos bellowing till the mountains move ; 
As if great Jove had called his mighty choir, 
And touched the strings with his tremendous fire. 
He reads the verse the ancient scroll contains, 
These fall as soft as sun-reflecting rains, 
When the fine arch is spread for miles each way, 
And not a breeze disturbs the showers of May : 



68 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



So soft the ancient bard his harp had played, 
That to his verses listened many a maid ; 
He sung the dream of Mary on the hill, 
Which showed the secrets of a lady's will. 

"How soft, how cheerful, sound yon bells 

Within my native vale ; 
And every tone sweet echo tells, 

That flies along the dale t 

And thus, my Henry, shall they sound 

When we together join, 
And Hymen has our wishes crowned. 

And thou art ever mine. 

Contentment, hovering on his wings, 

Shall at the wedding be ; 
And viols, with their tuneful strings, 

Shall trill sweet harmony. 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



The hautboy and the shepherd's flute, 

Shall breathe a joyful air ; 
The dulcimer and mellow lute, 

Shall swell the octaves there. 

The nymphs, and all the cheerful Nine, 

Unseen shall each inspire ; 
While Bacchus brings the choicest wine, 

And Vesta lights the fire. 

The virgins, with their tresses bound 

By many a wreath of flowers, 
Shall wish their youths, like mine, were found, 

And all their bliss like ours. 

The world that day may roll away ; 

But all, so blest with love, 
Shall scarcely know the eve from day, 

Nor think the moments move." 



70 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Thus thought the maid — 'twas truth she spoke, 

As she in raptures slept ; 
But, disappointed, when she woke, 

That all was air — she wept. 

Far weightier strains next tremble on the lyre, 
Strains, which the coldest bosoms would inspire ! 
'Twas on the evening of a hunting day, 
The bard rehearsed the deeds of an affray, 
Of which the warriors to their children spoke — 
What lords were slain, what ladies' hearts were broke, 
When two great hosts marched forth with sword and 
shield, 

And met in conflict on old Towton's field. 

The Earl of March, Plantagenet's true heir, 
From Pont'fract came, and all his host was there ; 
At Ferrybridge the great Fitzwalter stood, 
The pass to guard o'er Aire's fine rolling flood. 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



71 



Northumberland and Clifford knew the plan, 

And Somerset, the brave, the loyal man, 

Led on his files — but fierce and short the fray — 

Fitzwalter fell before the break of day : 

High as the battlements were heaped the slain, 

And few could meet at Pontefract again. 

To Edward's camp the noble Warwick rode, 

Then drew his sword, long, shining, sharp and broad, 

Vowed from his monarch he would never part, 

Then plunged the weapon to his charger's heart ; 

Which showed that for his monarch and his right, 

On foot great Warwick never feared to fight. 

Edward proclaimed, " Does any soldier fear ? 

Let such return, nor spread infection here ; 

March forth, ye brave, whose souls with valour burn, 

Cowards, fall back, and you that fear, return ! . 

All you who fight, and me, your king, regard, 

Shall each one find a bountiful reward : 

But should a coward, when we meet in fight, 

Turn from the foe, to save himself by flight, 



72 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Whoever shall such trembling dastard slay, 
Shall be promoted when we gain the day." 

When morn first broke, dark, stormy, and unclear, 
To Towton's plain all Edward's host are near ; 
Wild, gloomy, red, the awful morning came, 
As though the east was painted o'er with flame : 
Upon the western hills, in ev'ry form, 
Hung the dark clouds, and hail was in the storm. 
It was the Sabbath broke upon the plain, 
Where Henry's sixty thousand host had lain ; 
Not in warm tents, but on the dampy ground — - 
Thousands of warriors sleeping there were found ; 
While others watched to feed with wood the fires, 
And on the plain were seen unnumbered spires 
Of quiv'ring flames, high crowned with azure smoke 
Such was the scene when first the morning broke. 
The chiefs, each mounting on his prancing steed, 
Rode forth amid the youths that soon must bleed. 
A finer band of warriors never lay 
Upon the plain, for war to sweep away ; 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



73 



Nor truer youths than Edward's ever found, 

To guard, in war, the monarch these had crowned. 

The trumpeters were ordered then to blow T , 

And every warrior that was sleeping low, 

Stretched his strong limbs, half stiffened by the frost, 

And many a soldier had all feelings lost, 

And there had died, had not some good old wine 

Warmed their cold bosoms ere they formed the line. 

They rose — but not to dress, for that was done — 

No hasty buckling of their armour on ; 

No sharpening of the battle-axe and spear — 

All this was done before the host marched there. 

Grand was the martial sight on Towton's plain ! 
A sight which England ne'er may see again. 
Stars on a thousand breasts, gems on their swords — 
In Henry's cause had armed a thousand lords ; 
His w T as no common cause — the king was crowned — 
Thousands of youths for him lay on the ground. 
Arrows were useless in the dreadful fray — 
'Twas sword to sword on that eventful day. 



74 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



The river, soon retarded by the slain, 
Stood like a lake, and deluged half the plain. 
How little thought the pious peasants near, 
That York and Lancaster contended there ! 
At Saxton church the rustic peasants met, 
When these returned, the willows all were wet 
With noble blood — astonished there they stand — - 
Thousands are bleeding there on either hand. 



Now with the fire of battle, 

Swords, and shields, and helmets ring ; 
Dreadful was the deadly rattle — 

Either host fought for a king ! 

Red with blood the warriors' feet, 
Shattered many a brazen shield ; 

Again they turn ! — again they meet ! — 
Death stamps his name upon the field. 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Northumberland, with burning breast, 
Leading his warriors at their head ; 

Each line, each squadron thus addrest : — 
" See, nearly half our foes are dead ! 

Forward, ye brave ! the day is ours ; 

Forward, and fiercely fight the foe \ y * 
But darts and arrows came in showers, 

And laid the mighty leader low. 

Now the charge — now the flame 
Burning in each warrior's heart ; 

Each forgot, or life, or fame, 

Scorned the sword, the spear, the dart. 

Wave the red rose and the white, 
Ranks are broken, rage is king ; 

Mixed, man with man they fight — 
Lost the centre, and each wing. 



76 



LYRE OF EBOR, 



Beaumont falls — a thousand more 
Fight around the corse of Grey ; 

Every face is red with gore — 
Death is sated with his prey. 

Raging comes the furious storm, 

Either host is lost in snow ; 
Kage so fierce — no line can form — 

In the drifts are thousands low ! 

White the storm falls from the sky ; 

When upon the plain 'tis spread, 
Soon 'tis changed with gory dye, 

Swords, and snow, and fields are red. 

Now the centre meet the wing ; 

Clash the swords, and break the spear 
Now the targe — -the helmets ring, 

Death in every form appears ! 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Limbs are lost, and heads are cleft, 
Thousands fall to rise no more : 

Oh ! what widows then w ere left, 
With their helpless orphans poor ! 



Now they fly, and now they turn, 
By the battle's fury driven ; 

All their breasts with anger burn- 
Death with every blow is giv'n ! 



Now the last effort of King Henry's host 

Was such as warlike Britons never met, 
Upon the plain they twenty thousand lost, 

And those that fled, before were never beat. 
The red rose fell before Prince Edward's force J 

And when the storm was o'er, and clear the sky, 
Of Henry's host w r as neither foot nor horse — * 

Terror, confusion, panic, made them fly, 



78 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Now- evening 1 came, and sorrow's darkest shade 
Shrouded the lovely features of the fair ; 

Cold in their gore near forty thousand laid, 
And many a brave young warrior was there. 
Then ladies' cheeks were wet with many a tear, 

And for their souls' release the Friars prayed ; 

All England mourned — e'en those that gained the 
fight, 

Sighed o'er the slain, so awful was the sight ! 

Thousands of helmets, lances, swords, and spears, 
Arrows, and breast-plates, and unnumbered shields, 

Each stained with gore among the slain appears, 
And richest gems are spread upon the fields. 
At such a sight the stoutest bosom yields, 

And eyes that seldom weep are wet with tears ; 

Dreadful the day, when Towton's wide-stretched 
plain 

Groaned with the mighty burden of the slain ! 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



79 



The widows wept — but women soon forget 

Their former husbands, when in dust they're lain ; 
Their cheeks with tears a month or two are wet, 

But love within their bosoms lights again : 
They reason thus — " We live not by the slain ; 
These ne'er return, tho' widows we remain 
This did the bard observe through wasting years, 
And placed but little faith in woman's tears. 

Sad was the morning of the mournful day, 

When relatives the dead and dying found ; 
Some from the field were lifeless borne away, 

The rest promiscuous hurried to the ground. 
And many — far from their loved place of birth, 
By hands of foes were tumbled into earth. 
To lighter strains the bard his harp now strung, 
For he too much of bloody scenes had sung. 



so 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



Regret not, dear ladies,, the fate of the brave, 
Who fight for the king and the fair ; 

An halo of glory encircles their grave, 
And fame wets each corse with a tear ! 

They feared not the trumpet, the bugle, or drum, 
The banners or swords of their foes ; 

But their watchword was " Let all our enemies come, 
We soon will each phalanx enclose !" 

Their armour was bright when they rode forth at 
morn ; 

Their spirits were never dismayed ; 
The spears on the shoulders of warriors w ere borne, 
And high were the banners displayed. 

The strains of the trumpets were " Edward, our king!" 

The song was " Long life to the brave !" 
And next I could hear the young warriors sing, 

"For victory, or death and the grave !" 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



§1 



Then weep not, dear ladies, your lords are asleep, 
All peaceful they know not your cares ; 

Drive anguish away, 'tis too late now to weep, 
For their spirits departed in pray'rs. 

To Harewood Castle gallant Lisle returns — 
No more with anxious grief his lady mourns ; 
His noble friends in brilliant armour shine, 
And drown the terrors of the day in wine. 
While York's strong gates were opened to their king, 
And sounds of conquest swelled from ev'ry string, 
High blazed the torches on the lofty towers, 
And swiftly flew the glad triumphant hours ; 
And many a day, in festive mirth and glee, 
Spent the brave knights o'er Edward's victory. 
At length the dance, and love's soft joys gave place 
To nobler sport — the pleasures of the chase. 
From Harewood Castle, at the break of day, 
With horse and hounds the knights rode swift away. 

G 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



The top of Almus cliff was red 
With cheerful beams of morn ; 

The sun upraised his golden head, 
When echo heard the horn. 

The hounds into the valley ran ; 

The fox his cover broke ; 
The sounds cheer'd every sportive man— 

The hills — the valleys spoke. 

Across the plain he took his way, 

The hounds in music sung ; 
There ne'er was such a hunting day 

Since Rugimont was young. 

At Arthington the stream he took— 
The hounds, the horses near, 

Crossed the broad river like a brook— 
They all were hunters there. 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



To Kirkby Hill they see him fly 

As rapid as the Wind ; 
The hounds pursue in tuneful cry, 

With horsemen close behind. 

The nuns of Arthington beheld 
The glories of the chase, 

And almost wished to quit the veil, 
Tho' modest was each face. 

As swift the fox runs o'er the hills, 
And close behind the hounds, 

Borne on the winds the echo swells 
The ever-varying sounds. 

From Rugimont the sportive Lisle 
Rode on the fleetest horse ; 

No hedge nor river, gate nor stile, 
Could stop his hunter's course. 



LYRE OF EEOR. 



Dreadnought and Ranger led the pack, 

And Hector ran the third ; 
Next Skilful sung, and deep-mouthed Jack — 

Such sounds were never heard. 

To Riffas Wood sly renard hies, 

The best of hounds pursue ; 
The notes into a chorus rise — 

All have him in the view ! 

In vain he runs — he turns in vain 
From hunters, hounds, and steeds ; 

He struggles hard the rock to gain, 
But at its foot he bleeds. 

The dying fox seized many a hound, 
While struggling hard for breath ; 

The gallant Lisle arrived the first, 
And shouted at the death. 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



85 



The hunters wished that he had gained 

His hold amid the rocks, 
For Wharfdale never yet contained 

For sport a better fox. 



Then lord and baron, knight and banneret, 
Tn honest true old English friendship met, 
Returned to Hare wood, talking of the chase, 
And pleasure shone on every noble face : 
For nothing drives old wrath so far away 
As such a chase as these had seen that day. 
No city's pomp, no pampered courtier's pride 
Yields satisfaction like the sportive ride, 
When the whole mind in hunting takes delight, « 
And Pleasure greets returning Health at night. 
Songs of the chase that evening were not sung,— 
To strains like these the minstrel's harp was strung : 



86 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



« The fields have been red where the battle was 
burning, 

The horse, man, and leader have fallen so fast, 
That the joys of the fair have been changed into 
mourning, 

But such a dread carnage is surely the last. 

To the floor of the hall let the ladies bring flowers— 
At rest is the battle-axe, bow, and the quiver ; 

The enemy's fled, and the victory's ours, 

And peace shall reside in our valley for ever. 

This night we rejoice not that thousands are wounded; 

No music shall sound o'er the myriads that fell, 
Ere Edward's shrill trumpet the victory sounded, 

And soldiers did actions no language can tell. 

They may sing of famed Cressy, where warriors did 
wonders, 

When the clang of their arms to the skies did ascend, 
But war sends not forth its most terrible thunders, 
Till, raging, fierce Britons with Britons contend. 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



87 



Then bursts in wild fury the lightning of battle ; 

The clash of the sword, of the lance, and the targe 
Are borne on the wind, and the horrible rattle 

Swells louder and louder, as quicker they charge ! 

Let time throw a veil o'er the dark scene of terrors 
Depicted in gore on the breast of the plain, 

And wine drown the sad recollection of horrors 
That stalked in all forms on the field of the slain." 

Then rose the bard, his harp aside was lain, 

And gravely spoke in this prophetic strain :— 

" These towers shall fall, and bury deep in earth 

The floors where once was seen the dance of mirth ; 

But there shall rise a mansion richer far, 

When England rests secure from civil war, 

Whose lords shall be respected by their kings ; 

And here shall other minstrels touch the strings. 

Below shall patriotic troops appear, 

Led by commanders to the monarch dear ; 



88 



LYRE OF EBOR. 



True British valour firmly shall unite 
The throne to guard, and every Briton's right. 
A finer dance, a richer sight shall he, 
Than all thy ancient masks and revelry ; 
A better chase, when these the fox pursue, 
And fleeter hounds than ever Redman knew 
Shall cross the hills, and in the valleys sing, 
Till woods and vales with cheerful echo ring. 
But what are all the trifling things of earth, 
The highest pleasures, or the greatest mirth, 
The fairest scenes, where ev'ry beauty is, 
And all that can compose terrestrial bliss, 
The love of sport, the finest dance or song P 
All quickly fade, and cannot please us long. 
The short-lived pleasures which this earth affords, 
To poorest paupers or the greatest lords, 
Are all but shadows, or like passing showers, 
Transient their sweetness as night-blowing flowers 
While Virtue is more lasting than the sun, 
And pleasure yields when earthly joys are gone. 



S9 



THE 

FALL OF BELSHAZZAR. 



Thus spoke Israel's God, — " Earth's inhabitants tell, 
Great Babylon's fallen, confounded is Bel ! 
Merodach is broken ! let Israel wave 
Its flag o'er the idols which never could save !" 

Her gates were of brass, and her ramparts were strong, 
And there were the feasting, the dance, and the song ; 
Her horsemen were brave, and her archers were sure, 
And her streets were perfumed till the zephyrs were 
pure. 



90 



THE FALL OF BELSHAZZAR. 



Her great heathen temples were grand to behold, 
Their pillars were marble, their capitals gold ; 
Since Adam first dwelt in fair Eden alone, 
Such glory and pomp on this earth never shone. 

Poor Israel, imprisoned, oppressed with the rod, 
Sat cheerless, but still they remembered their God ; 
No armour had they but the fast-falling tear, 
For the best arms of Israel were always a prayer. 

From the holes of the prison to Zion they turned 
Their sorrowful features, and inwardly mourned; 
They cried — " Let us once our Jerusalem see, 
And, Lord, all our praise shall be given to thee !" 

The Lord saw their tears, and an army came forth — 
The terrible nations in arms from the North ; 
The beasts of the forest were never more strong, 
And the very hills shook as the host marched along, 



THE FALL OF BELSHA.ZZAR. 



91 



All drunk in the city, none saw them advance ; 
The music was there, and the timbrel and dance ; 
The feast and the pleasures beneath night's dark pall, 
They thought not how soon the great city must fall. 

As the army drew nearer, no trumpet was heard, 
No flashing of spears or of helmets appeared ; 
But their armour was such as but giants could wield, 
And their spears were as thick as the corn of the field. 

The horsemen were spread in the front of the line — 
Chaldea ! such horsemen were never yet thine ; 
On the high northern hills, many furlongs afar, 
Stretched miles either way, was the rear of the war. 

As, guided by heaven, the strong rampart they found, 
And hundreds of soldiers soon cut up the ground, 
Euphrates, released, ran swift from its bed, 
As the sign that great Babylon's glory was fled. 



92 



THE FALL OF BELSHAZZAR. 



Then thousands and thousands effected a pass, 
And found all unbolted the strong gates of brass ; 
In silence they marched, till the palace they found, 
Then the trump of the host was commanded to sound. 

The brave sought their armour, the cowardly fled, 
And terror through every palace was spread : 
Such terror, such paleness the city spread o'er, 
As no trumpets can cause till old time is no more. 

Belshazzar's strong army awoke from their rest, 
And buckled a breast-plate on every breast ; 
But the armour was rusted, and blunt was the spear, 
No sharp-wetted swords, tho J the foe was so near. 

The torches were lighted, and blazed on each tower, 
The scene which they showed quite unnerved every 
power; 

For the arms of the foes were all polished so bright, 
That each seemed a torch by reflecting the light. 



THE FALL OF BELSHAZZAR. 



93 



The Medians, drunk in the monarch's proud court, 
The vessels destroyed, and made grandeur their sport ; 
But those which belonged to the house of the Lord, 
Were all by the warriors, though barb'rous, restored. 

When drunken with wine, the wine ran a flood, 
Then they fought through the streets in a torrent of 
blood ; 

Their swords were as red as the wine they had drunk, 
And little they fought ere ten thousand had sunk. 

The garments of princesses hung on their spears, 
And the crown of a prince on the pavement appears ; 
The mighty Belshazzar is dragged from his seat, 
And the gems of his throne are as dust in the street. 

The breasts of the num'rous white chargers were red 
With the speed which they trod on the dying and 
dead ; 

The bright helms of steel, which the Medians wore, 
Were spotted all over with Babylon's gore. 



94 



THE FAIX OF BELSHAZZAR* 



When morning arose, what dread terrors appeared I 
The streets of the city, which nothing had feared, 
Were strewed o'er with slain, and nor music nor mirth 
Shall ever sound more — for 'tis sunk to the earth. 

The shouts of the captives now joyful arise, 
And the praises of Israel ascend to the skies. 
The princes of earth, and the tyrants of all, 
If God be against them, how certain their fall ! 

Awake, all ye captives ! ye dead, from the grave ! 
Shout — " The idols are broken which never could 
save !" 

And bear it, ye winds ! — earth's inhabitants, tell 
Great Babylon's fallen, confounded is Bel ! 



95 



THE 



VANITY OF HUMAN AFFAIRS. 



The horse, the ass, can crop the grass, 
And on the dewy mountains sleep, 

Then toil away the summer's day, 
Nor drop a tear, — they never weep. 

No friends to turn, which make them mourn 
No wants but Nature's hands supply ; 

No souls of fire make these aspire 
Or labour after vanity. 



THE VANITY OF HUMAN AFFAIRS. 

When tempests rise, and all the skies 
Are shrouded in a stormy vest, 

Within the deep the fishes sleep, 
The thunders cannot them molest. 

No silver there is counted dear, 
O'er rubies carelessly they glide ; 

Though diamonds blaze, they never gaze 
On gems of wealth beneath the tide. 

The feathered fowls, devoid of souls, 
Sing cheerful on the bending spray ; 

And, when oppressed, they go to rest, 
Or fan the clouds and soar away. 

In ignorance the rustics dance, 

And laugh and sing devoid of care ; 

Though sorrows come, there is no room 
Within their breasts for dark despair. 



THE VANITY OF HUMAN AFFAIRS. 

But though the share of anxious care 
Sinks deepest in the feeling breast ; 

When raptures rise all sorrow flies, 
And in my cot I then am blest. 

The fighting hosts, the fancied ghosts, 
And Nature in its every form ; 

The storm at peace, or when the seas 
Wave their white mantles to the storm, 

I see, tho' here, yet from my sphere 
My spirit soars on rapture's wings ; 

My harp I take, its chords awake, 

And sweep the chorus o'er the strings. 



H 



98 



MARY, I WILL THINK OF YOU. 



Tune— -"In a cottage near a wood." 



When upon the heather bloom 
First appears the evening dew, 

When the daisies close their eyes, 
Mary, I will think of you. 

When the woodland doves I hear, 
On the budding birchen bough, 

While the thrush is singing clear, 
Mary, I will think of you. 



MARY, I WILL THINK OF YOU. 



When I hear the evening chime, 
While soft echo answers true, 

Tho' at midnight's solemn time, 
Mary, I will think of you. 

When upon the orient skies 

Morning spreads her pinky hue, 

When I wake, before I rise, 
Mary, I will think of you. 

When among the heather bells, 
Rising up the wild curlew, 

Where the wildest music swells, 
Mary, I will think of you. 

On the banks of Windermere, 
'Mid fair scenes for ever new, 

Then I wished my Mary there, 
Pleased with every changing view, 



MARY, I WILL THINK OF YOU. 

When my bark must leave the shore, 
Yet, unchanged, my heart is true ; 

Singing to the well-timed oar, 
I'll drop a tear, and think of you. 

When my bark is far away, 

Nought but seas and skies in view, 
Plowing thro' the watery way, 

Mary, I will think of you, 



101 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



Death and Disease my solemn muses be ; 
Throw o'er my soul a sickbed's canopy ; 
Let sorrow dictate every mournful line, 
And, true repentance, let the strains be thine ! 
Tears wet the page, while falling like the rain, 
O'er my two friends by wine untimely slain. 

Their mothers met, their fathers friendly were,* 
Before their infant eyes could drop a tear ; 
And when they felt the first of earthly joys, 
When first they toddled, oft exchanging toys, 
Plucked in each others gardens flowers they choose, 
And smiled together, when they knew not woes. 



102 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



How oft their parents talked of future times, 
And prayed that they might e'er be clear from crimes, 
Pleased to behold them in a garment new, 
And loved them better as they older grew ! 
Young Philo joined them — then the happy three 
In pleasure lived, and knew not misery. 
Far on the hills,, amid the purple bloorn 
Of honied heath, they talked of bliss to come ; 
Then bathed amid the mountain's crystal spring, 
Blithe as the trout that skims with finny wing. 
A thousand sports were there to make them blest, 
The happiest moments when the heath they pressed ; 
When the wild lapwing, or the grey curlew, 
Screaming around their heads in circles flew, 
And moorhens, rolling o'er the bent and heath, 
To save their little broods from instant death ; 
But when the cruel youths once came too nigh, 
They spread their wings, and showed they yet could 

fly: 

An emblem these of joys seen just before, 
We grasp in hope, they fly, and are no more. 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



103 



Oft in mischievous sport these took delight, 
And made the sable evening clouds be bright 
With fiery turf, with heath, and brackens dry, 
The heath soon blazed, and seemed to light the sky ; 
As if some great volcano there had been, 
And blushed the clouds as they beheld the scene. 
Philo would talk of Ida's mighty flame, 
When blazed the woods, and liquid iron came ; 
Compare it then to JEtna in his mirth, 
And spoke of Hurculaneum swept from earth ; 
Then talk of great Vesuvius' mighty blaze, 
And wished that he could on its terrors gaze. 
The furious flames now to a circle spread 
A mile around, and tinged the smoke with red : 
Then came the besom-makers with a shout, 
And with their besoms strove to dash it out ; , 
Singed with the flames, they could not heat abide, 
For they with brooms as soon had stopped the tide, 
The ling was deep, and aged was the bed, 
Dry was the night — the flames in fury spread 



104 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



To such extent, that nought could stop their force, 
Till not a branch of heath was in their course. 
Where first the fire began the youths were lain, 
Vowing they ne'er would fire the heath again. 
Their other fires some acres swept away, 
This blackened many hundreds ere 'twas day : 
An emblem this of drink — we take a quart, 
Perhaps some spirits, ere from friends we part, 
And then another glass, perhaps the same, 
Till folly spreads into a foolish flame. 

My tale must pass o'er years, with all their joys, — 
They spent their lives in play, like other boys. 
Young Philo was to learning most inclined, 
But Amphorus to music turned his mind. 
Paros, a lovely youth, within his breast 
Of mortal feelings surely had the best. 
He saw not misery, but shed a tear, 
He had no friends, but loved them far too dear, 
Believed all flatterers were such as he, 
So honest, man's deceit he could not see. 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



105 



The evening sun of summer seldom set, 

But these three youths in purest friendship met, 

Talked till the light was faded in the sky, 

Or listened Amphorus' wild melody. 

Sometimes young Philo, struggling with his theme, 

An evening from his comrades would redeem ; 

His mind expanded as his knowledge grew, 

And learning's every step more pleasant grew. 

He saw the hidden stores of Grecian lore — 

Each draught he took but made him thirst for more. 

Amphorus said, " For nought on earth I'll live 

But those sweet pleasures harmony can give ; 

Whate'er my kindred leave me shall be spent 

On music, and the noble instrument 

Which brings the skylark's note, or the deep tone 

Which shakes foundations of the firmest stone. 

The viol's varied tones I yet will know, 

The harp's, from whence soft melody can flow ; 

Each varied part my bosom shall inspire, 

Of lively concerts, or the solemn choir ; 



106 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



And marches for the army I'll compose, 
Such as shall sound when Britain meets her foes. 
The music of the ancient school I'll learn, 
And where the solemn chords of dirges mourn ; 
Mozart, Von Weber, in each varied flight 
I'll follow, till I catch their notes at sight." 

Young Paros, smiling, looked on Nature's face, 
And with his eye her outlines he could trace ; 
In youth he begged for colours to be bought, 
To place upon the canvass what he thought 
With practice now he can in shades pourtray 
The varied tints of soft departing day, 
Touch the rich landscape with such light and shade, 
That many thought the penciled objects played. 
The youths and virgins, in the bowers of love, 
Were so like Nature, that they seemed to move. 
Whene'er the landscape was by Paros shown, 
The varied trees and every shrub were known. 
Send Paros where you would, in every place 
His lively eyes were fixed on Nature's face ; 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



107 



But such his application for a name, 
Deep study shook at last his tender frame, 
And for his health, and for the art he loved, 
From Cumbria's scenes to Paris he removed. — 
Pleased with the paintings where the masters shone, 
He gazed upon them as a chisseled stone 
Formed to a statue ; so engaged his mind, 
He thought not then of Nature's scenes behind; 
But when the time arrived that he must part, 
The thoughts of Grasmere rushed upon his heart. 
No scenes in Paris gave him such delight 
As he had found upon Helvellyn's height, 
Where o'er its top the eagle soars on high, 
And round its rocks the strongest ravens fly. 
Grandeur may be at Paris in fine forms, 
But not tremendous, like great Skiddaw's storms,. 
Walk Paris round, and view its beauties o'er, 
What are its fountains to the grand Lowdore, 
Where, dashing from the dreadful chasm on high, 
The cataract seems as rushing from the sky P 



108 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



These Paros saw — retiring in despair, 

He durst not try such grandeur as was there. 

Oft he beheld the mist from Derwent lake 

Slow curling to the hills in many a flake, 

And as the morning sun sent forth his rays, 

The scene was far above the greatest praise ; 

Such there is seen when not a zephyr blows, 

When the pure lake upon its surface shows 

Skiddaw inverted, and the cliffs on high — 

Fit scenes to wake the noblest minstrelsy. 

Oft Paros viewed the yellow orb of night 

When rising on the lake with golden light, 

Her shadow dancing like a sheet of flame, 

And with the scene soft Meditation came. 

Beneath the oaks, and opposite Lowdore, 

Oft Paros sat, and heard its torrent roar, 

Sketching the trembling waves, when Keswick's bell 

Hummed through the valley with a solemn swell. 

The hills returned the sound with weakened power, 

And told the artist 'twas the midnight hour. 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



109 



He thought upon the peace he left behind — 
The thoughts of Ellen pressed upon his mind ; 
Ellen, that ever was to Paros true, 
At Grasmere dwelt, where waves the solemn yew. 
Oft had he led her up Helvellyn's height, 
Her cheeks like roses, and her gown as white 
As is the snow where British eagles yell, 
Upon the mighty rocks where Goothe fell. 

When in the Louvre and the Champ de Mars, 
He thought of France and all her bloody wars, 
With all the arts, — to Paros these gave pain, 
While admiration mingled with disdain, 
To think what noble works to France were brought, 
The noblest statues, by great sculptors wrought, 
When thousands fell, and from the sacred shrine 
Such works were torn as, France, were never thine ; 
While the great artists slept within the tomb, 
By study hastened to an early home, 
Their paintings such as wet the eyes with tears, 
With by-past actions of a thousand years, — 



110 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



Adam and Eve, the flaming sword behind, 

So well pourtrayed, it seemed as if the wind 

Bended the flames, or as Eve's flowing hair 

Waved with the blast of vengeance that was there, — 

The Saviour dead — before the sheet was thrown 

O'er him that made all worlds, and wears the crown. 

Great is the imitation !— but I shrink 

That greatest artists ever yet durst think 

To paint the Saviour, giver of all bliss, — 

Raphael ne'er could form a face like his, 

Could he have seen how fair in death he slept— 

The hardest heart that viewed it would have wept. 

These things are nothing to the present theme ; 

Paros believed his Saviour would redeem 

Poets and painters, tho' they wildly roved, 

For Genius sure in heaven must be beloved. 

Through France and Switzerland the artist ranged, 
Where fruitful scenes to Alpine mountains changed ; 
Then viewed them all with inexpressed delight, 
Scenes rich by day, or grander still by night. 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. Ill 

As on the Alps the avalanches rise, 
Hills of eternal winter pierce the skies. 
He climbed their sides, with perseverance true, 
Till kingdoms on each side were in his view. 
Arrived at Rome, his young researching mind 
With works of ev'ry master was refined. 
What there he saw, what artists can behold, 
To tell, might make this humble tale seem cold : 
But he returned again to Cumbria's fells, 
To Derwent-water and to Grasmere's dells ; 
Then his rich neighbours flocked around to hear 
How well he liked at Rome, what paintings he saw 
there. 

He said, De Urban's lively canvass spoke, 
And great Raphael every passion woke ; 
Carracci's master-piece would make you weep,— 
He knew so well what would his paintings keep, 
That on each face you'd think old Nature played, 
And Life seemed dancing in the light and shade : 
But would not any trav'ler seem a fool 
To tell the masters of each varied school ? 



1]2 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



Parbs beheld their works, and thought them fine, 
But Paros drank, in France, too deep of wine : 
For he who once was well content with beer, 
Must now have spirits, his weak heart to cheer ; 
Then he could tell what he had seen away, 
Live in high life, and ne'er have ought to pay. 
Is there an arrow for the eagle's breast ? 
Is there a shot to pierce the raven's nest ? 
Is there for mortals any earthly curse ? 
There's nothing to a Genius that is worse. 
Hundreds have spirits sent unto the tomb, 
And made for youth the grave an early home. 
Death's the dire consequence of drinking deep, 
Then children, widow, and relations weep. 
So 'twas with Paros — he could paint the form 
Of wild despair, when struggling with the storm ; 
Sketch the wild anguish of a vessel's crew, 
Their bowsprit lost, and but her masts in view ; 
Paint well the billows, that they seem'd to roll, 
And with his powerful pencil freeze the soul. 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



113 



Nature was in his strokes, and every touch 
Was neither yet too little nor too much ; 
Secure in his imagination's might, 
Nature his pencil guided, and 'twas right. 
Upraised to fame, his company was sought, 
And likenesses he sketched as if they thought ; 
So well he touched the portrait of the fair, 
She seemed to breathe, as life herself was there. 
The battle-piece of Preston Pans he took, — 
The scene the noble mind of Paros woke. 
An ancient song, with fire in every line, 
Gave the first sketches of the great design ; 
These were the words that fired his feeling heart, 
And told how madly Stuart played his part : — 



The flashing claymores gleam afar, 
And small the files in distance are, 
Each helmet glitters like a star, 

As clansmen are advancing. 



i 



114 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



The trenches dug are broad and deep, 
In which the loaded cannon sleep — 
Silent their guns the terrors keep, 
To wait the Scotch artillery. 

Behind the hill the fight began, 
Death came with every kelted clan, 
And down fell many a southern man, 
The pipers sounding victory. 

They yet remembered Glencoe's vale, 
And sent their bullets thick as hail, 
And with the broad swords cut the mail, 
And met the slaughter dreadfully. 

Now rages discord — man and steed 

Rush to the charge — they fall, they bleed — 

Forgot is many a noble deed, 

The battle burns so terribly. 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 

] <ach cannoneer, with charge in hand, 
Amd others with the blazing brand, 
C lose to the heated cannon stand, 

The smoke ascending rapidly. 

T'le steeds, that left the foam behind, 
The pennons, streaming in the wind, 
A ad Scots, that scorned a coward's mind, 
Rushed to the onset gallantly. 

The English, loyal and more true, 
T ie thistle scorned, and firmer grew, 
A s closer pressed the bonnets blue, 

Inspired with Highland minstrelsy, 

The smoke, the blaze, the charge, the fire, 
The ranks that fall ere these retire, 
And England's banner lifted higher, 
Were grandeur and sublimity. 



116 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



Then darkness comes — the blaze is seen 
At distance, and long time between 
Each flash, which through the day had been 
From cannon quick as musketry. 

What Scotland won soon Scotland lost; 
Culloden all the glory tost 
To the cold shades, and there the frost 
Nipped her sharp thistle cruelly. 

Brave Gardener !— in death he lay ; 
A better never lost the day, 
Nor nobler spirit fled away 

To realms of blest eternity. 

The banners now must wave no more, 
The dreadful conflict now is o'er, 
And Scotland shall be clear from gore, 
For discord's lost in amity. 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



117 



On the broad canvass Paros had pourtrayed 
The varying glances of each shining blade, 
Left all descriptive poetry behind, 
And stamped at once the battle on the mind ; 
But close beside him was the bottle hung — 
He drank when faint, then painted as he sung ; 
But when the cheering draught had lost its head, 
His pencil shook, and all his fancy fled. 
When warmed with wine, his airy thoughts brought 
home 

The paintings, statues, and the scenes of Rome ; 
Columns of ev'ry order, laid on earth, 
Where Desolation froliced in her mirth ; 
All Nature rolled before his strong ideas — 
The land, the skies, the cities, and the seas : 
But soon his pulses in quick motions beat, 
His ruined appetite enjoys no meat, 
His frame decays, the mind is weaker made, 
He starts in dreams — his bosom's sore afraid. 
No pleasure can his weeping Anna give ; 
To him 'tis now no happiness to live ; 



118 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



He values not the bubble of a name, 
Nor prides himself in vain posthumous fame. 
When his bright eyes grew dim, and fancy fled, 
Bound to the confines of a dying bed, 
The pleasing landscape could no longer cheer ; 
His mind was weak, his dissolution neaf, 
When his pale cheek was laid on Anna's breast, 
And his cold hand by her he loved was pressed. 
What weeping then ! — no language now can tell 
How tears were rained when such a genius fell. 
Then was destroyed a generous noble mind, 
While the destroyer lurked in shades behind. 
Dreadful Intemperance ! thy tempting snare 
Holds while thou slayest, O, father of Despair ! 
There lay the artist, ready for the tomb, 
His valued paintings hung around the room ; 
Here the old ruin, and the shades below 
Spread where the crystal streams of Eden flow, 
And there the copy of the ocean storm, 
From Powell's, with the waves in ev'ry form. 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 

Oh ! the sad sight — 'twas solemn there to tread, 
To view his works, and see the artist dead. 
How placid he appeared ! — he seemed asleep — 
I wept, and all his portraits seemed to weep. 
It was the last farewell — he could not hear — 
His eyes were closed in peace, and not a tear 
Wet his pale cheek — he panted not for breath, 
But outshone life as calm he lay in death. 



His spirit's fled, his hand is still, 
His pencils now are useless laid, 

No more to sketch the vale or hill, 
No more to touch the light and shade. 

Let violets bloom where he is lain ! 

Ye flowers, stay late upon his tomb ! 
He ne'er can paint your tints again — 

True genius now has left its home. 



120 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



Relations wept, and Anna deeply sighed, 
For Anna, had he lived, had been his bride ; 
But all their weeping was an empty show, 
Compared to Philo's " eloquence of woe." 
When Philo entered, not a word he spoke — 
The feelings of the friend and poet woke ; 
Thoughts flew across his fancy, wild and deep, 
When Paros' eyes were sealed in endless sleep. 
He thought upon the soul of genius fled, 
Words burst in sorrow while young Philo said- — 
" Where is the spirit gone ? Could such a mind 
Vanish in air, and leave but clay behind ? 
Could matter think? could dust through systems roll ? 
No — 'twas the spirit fled without control. 
Sceptics, come blush, who think the soul is air- 
Look on his corpse when there's no spirit there. 
The mind that once was kept by genius bright, 
I knew in innocence, when, day or night, 
J oy plumed its wings : O, happiest days on earth ! 
When pleasure changed from purest joy to mirth, 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



121 



From mirth to rural bliss, from that to sleep, 

When health was good — we knew not how to weep. 

His mind for ever stretched in fancy strong, 

He soared too high on earth to tarry long : 

But language fails, while thus my bosom swells — 

I soon shall find where Paros' spirit dwells; 

Then shall unnumbered worlds, and all things new, 

Beyond the reach of mortals, burst upon our view." 

Through Nature Philo's lively fancy flew, 
He something of each varied science knew ; 
He read of polar wonders with delight, 
And searched each cause on which the learned write. 
He learned to know how little mortals know 
Of things above, or meanest things below, 
That when the Northern dancing streamers fly, 
They cannot tell how these can light the sky ; 
He learned to know that men of wit and thought, 
With greatest learning, scarce have learned ought. 
Philo the works of navigators read, 
That round the globe the bending canvass spread ; 



122 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



He knew by reading what each clime brought forth, 
From Nova Zealand to the cold Cape North, 
Astronomy he loved — his soul flew far, 
Through all the systems, to the polar star, 
Nor rested there — he struggled to explain 
The cause of tides that roll upon the main. 
Greek was his glory, Homer's verse he knew, 
His mind through ^Eschylus with pleasure flew ; 
He read each passage, soft, sublime, and strong, 
From great Euripides to Sappho's song ; 
His mind was learning's self, for such as he, 
That love to learn, grasp at infinity. 
The microscopic beauties they behold, 
Where atom insects seem as tinged with gold, 
Trees, plants, and birds, and all that is or was, 
In quick succession through their fancies pass, 
And every language, vulgar or refined, 
Are nothing to express the scholar's mind. 

Philo in study passed his years away, 
Ere he was led to college far astray. 



GENIUS A.ND INTEMPERANCE. 123 

There, with all aids, the dissipated youth 
Fly from the paths of rectitude and truth ; 
The greatest learning sometimes turns a curse, 
At every step the human heart grows worse, 
Tho' these can have the globes, the map, the chart, 
And every help of Nature and of Art, — 
Old vellum manuscripts of Runic lore, 
And those which ancient Romans scribbled o'er. 
From Egypt curiosities are brought, 
Perhaps two thousand years since these were wrought, 
Parchment from Athens, papyrus from Rome, 
Where Learning had a palace for her home. 
Language is now at college which was spoke 
When Britons groaned beneath the Saxon yoke. 
All that three thousand years can now supply, 
Are spread before the youthful scholar's eye ; 
However dark the works, they there can gain 
Others that will the darkest parts explain. 
But Philo, taught by many a pompous guide, 
For Nature's scenes and his own closet sighed. 



124 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



Sorrow, he found, with learning must increase — 
All chances there, but still he wanted peace, 
And sighed for solitude beneath some hill, 
Where at its foot runs swift the moorland rill, 
The blossomed bough, the birds upon each spray, 
Chaunting their vespers to departing day, 
Where bounding trouts within the brook arise, 
When winds are still, and sporting are the flies. 
Such rural pleasures Philo then could please, 
And nought on earth can equal joys like these. 
No pleasure half so near the joys above, 
As he experienced when he met his love, 
True as Leander, she as Hero true, 
Bliss most refined, the greatest e'er he knew. 
Kings have not more, and riches cannot give 
Such bliss as when in innocence we live. 

Within the valley Philo had a friend, 
With whom he many a happy hour could spend, 
His greatest glory was to make him blest — 
He lent the youth all volumes he possessed. 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



125 



Here Philo, happy, passed his hours away, 
Ere wine had led his tow'ring soul astray. 
He read of battles, and the sons of Jove, 
Of mystic rites, and of the scenes of love. 
In learning's happy hours the youth was blest, 
Till love's strong passion raged within his breast ; 
Then lost was peace, and Homer's noble fire 
Was quenched amid the fervour of desire ; 
Forgot the things below, the orbs above, 
His tow'ring spirit was subdued by love. 
She that had vowed to love him while away, 
Bless him at eve, and think on him by day, 
Like woman, to be rid of anxious pain, 
Forsook young Philo for a vulgar swain. 
Then fell the genius — Philo's love was scorned, 
In silent grief the foolish scholar mourned, 
Cobwebs were seen among his modern books, 
And Care had stamped her image on his looks. 
What tuneful Virgil ? or what Homer then ? 
What all the writings of the wisest men ? 



126 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



What all the greatest literature of earth ? 
What all his studies ? — all are nothing worth. 
French and Italian, Hebrew, Latin, Greek, 
Served but the anguish of his soul to speak. 
His heart felt love, tho' learned and young, 
And thus, in Greek, the scholar sung : 

" What is the consummation of desire, 
The scholar's learning, or the poet's fire ? 
What pleasures from the greatest knowledge flow 
Learning is oft the cause of deepest woe. 
The peasants may admire the learned youth ; 
But did the poor unlettered know the truth, 
How fine their feelings, how their lives are spent, 
They then would sing, enjoying true content. 
The learned may search antiquity for years, 
Or read till not a novelty appears, 
These cannot Nature from the bosom move, 
No — more they know, the stronger is their love ; 
And women, oh ! I write it with a tear, 
Soon lose affection when you are not there. 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



127 



O, angel forms ! heaven's master-piece on earth ! 
Sources of pain, the fount of joy and mirth ! 
Destroyers of dark grief, the cause of woe ! 
But why be blamed, since Nature made you so ? 
Sometimes as true as Sol's returning rays, 
But oft as fickle as the meteor's blaze." 

Now Philo's years amount to twenty-one, 
And he a learned youth, a hopeful son ; 
His lyre he tuned, and love was in its sounds, 
And he sole master of three thousand pounds. 
As when the rider, on the grassy plain, 
The useless bridle thrown upon the mane, 
The curb of wisdom thus did Philo throw, 
Resolved all passions of mankind to know. 
A sable velvet coat he first had made, 
And o'er his breast the shot-belt was displayed ; 
With spaniels and swift greyhounds Philo ranged, 
As fancy led, so his amusements changed ; 
Each night at parties, at the course next day, 
And thus the hours of Philo passed away : 



128 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



Or when the horn proclaimed the cheerful chase, 
Philo was there, with pleasure on his face. 
At concert, play, the masquerade, or ball, 
With learning, mirth, and wit he outshone all. 
No thoughts of feeble age, or future days — 
His soaring mind was ever drunk with praise. 
His gay companions now with him would go, 
And view the far-famed field of Waterloo; 
Provided well with gold, they bade farewell 
Each to his fair, and saw the ocean swell. 
When in the strongest gale, upon the prow 
Young Philo stood, and watched the waves below, 
Whose foaming tops were whitened o'er with spray, 
And tossed the vessel as she plowed her way, 
With heart undaunted he beheld the tide — 
His mind rejoiced to see the vessel ride, 
Her head amid the waves, her stern on high, 
And then her bowsprit pointing to the sky; 
One hand was firmly grasped around the line, 
The other held a quart of purple wine. 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



129 



Serene, he viewed the waves in every form, 

And vowed 'twas wine inspired him in the storm : 

For firm he stood, and saw the vessel plow 

Through hills of seas, his friends all sick below. 

The tempest ceased, the winds retired to rest, 

The bark skimmed smoothly o'er the ocean's breast. 

On deck the sea-sick passengers appeared, 

By Philo and the sailors loudly cheered. 

The youth had seen the well-built vessel roll, 

The sight had warmed his genius, fired his soul ; 

The lightning's flash, the thunder, and the sea 

Had raised his mind to noblest ecstacy. 

The sails were full, and, leaning on her side, 

Swiftly she cuts her passage through the tide, 

And soon the land is seen in distance blue — 

The level shores of Belgium they view. 

The music sounds, the wines like water run, 

When mirth upon the vessel is begun, 

The captain joins, and there the spirits shine, 

The choicest brandy, and the best of wine, 



K 



130 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



And soon they hailed a vessel which they knew, — 

The captain from the steerage quickly threw 

A cask of Hollands — with the best 'twas stored — 

The sailors shouted when 'twas heaved on board. 

Then discord rose, and every sailor drunk — 

Three fell astern, and in the ocean sunk. 

The boat was lowered, but mirth and joy were o'er, 

They fell — but from that fall they rose no more, 

Till the rough billows brought each corpse to land, 

And left them nearly buried in the sand. 

Arrived upon the hill where armies fought, 
Young Philo's soul was all absorbed in thought ; 
The place where thousands lay interred was seen, 
And there the grass waved with a deeper green. 
He thus reflected : — " What a stillness here ! 
Low the hussar, and cold the cuirassier ; 
The meeting armies shout not on the field, 
Nor fall by thousands, each too firm to yield ; 
The close-wedged squares of British troops are gone* 
Now still the place where Europe's peace was won ; 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



131 



Mute are the bugle and the trumpet's calls, 

Yet here the plough shall find the bones and balls, 

And here the spade shall turn up many a scull, 

And broken arms, of which the fields are full. 

In thoughtful contemplation Philo gazed, 

And saw the spot where Hugomont had blazed ; 

He thought what thousands fell when that was fired, 

Then, with a sigh, from Mount Saint Jean retired. 

At Belle Alliance, at the close of day, 

The blithe companions drove their cares away ; 

Inspired with brandy, Philo's muse awoke, 

And in extempore verses thus he spoke : — 

Low laid in yon mountain the hero, the brave, 
The Prussian, the Frenchman, and Scot, 

And the young British warrior's no more than a slave, 
He now as a slave is forgot. 

The pride of the battle to ashes are turned, 
And dim their once war-beaming eyes ; 

The boldest, that rushed where the hot battle burned, 
Fell quickly, but never to rise. 



J32 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



And this is their glory — they stand as a mark, 
Firm, braving the bullets, for fame ; 

They flash, like the meteor, they fall, and 'tis dark- 
To them all the blaze of a name. 

With thirst of knowledge Philo's bosom burns, 

And his unsettled thoughts to Paris turns ; 

But the young Muse had formed her thorny nest, 

Sweetly perfumed, within his youthful breast. 

Here he resolved to make remarks as true 

As life itself, on every passing view. 

His books he spurned, and open threw his mind 

To read the spacious volumes of mankind ; 

He saw that youths might read, and yet be fools, 

Full of the modern jargon of the schools ; 

But he resolved the varied scenes to see, 

From beggars' cots to sceptred royalty. 

First at Brussels he told his tale of woe, 

As though his arm was lost at Waterloo ; 

His empty sleeve hung dangling at his side — 

In Anglo-French he told how comrades died. 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



133 



At night, what varied scenes were in his view, 
Mixed with the beggars and the gipsies' crew ! 
Their mournful tales were changed to mirth and glee, 
And mendicants all joined in harmony. 
When Philo saw their mirth and fun begin, 
A louis d'or he gave to purchase gin. 
All instruments were tuned that then were there, 
And punch and music drowned all their care ; 
Patches from eyes were torn, which then could see, 
And good box organs grinded melody. 
Philo without its mask deception saw, 
Amid the motley group, that laughed at law. 
Escaped from prison, one, disguised, was there, 
Another was a wounded privateer ; 
And there was one her infant's blood had spilt, 
That Hollands deeply drank, to drown her guilt. 1 
Mirth still prevailed, and tuned the viols' strings- 
Grief, Care, and Sorrow spread their drowsy wings, 
And flew away — such sportive glee and fun 
As few behold, by gipsies were begun. 



134 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



Then young and old could sit not on the bench, 
But danced — Italians, Germans, Dutch, and French. 
Upon the earthern floor the wooden peg 
Kept as true time as many a better leg. 
To cheer young Philo's heart, and mend the scene, 
Up rose three youthful gipsies, scarce eighteen ; 
One touched the sweet guitar, and with a smile 
The other danced, in true Italian style; 
Chords from the tambourin the third awoke — 
Philo stood charmed, their feet the music spoke. 
These scenes did all the vagrants' arts explain, 
With these he never wished to meet again ; 
Then were Deception's masks all torn away — 
In higher spheres he spent each future day. 

When o'er Brussels dark Night had cast her shade, 
Hundreds were dressing for the masquerade, 
In all the varied costumes nations wear 
In every clime throughout each hemisphere. 
As great Apollo Philo's head was crowned, 
Who led the dance, with Muses circled round. 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



135 



With grand, majestic step Apollo trod — 
The sons of song paid homage to the god. 
First Homer came, a venerable form, 
Upon his breast pourtrayed the ocean storm, 
Above, the gods, descending from the sky, 
Some to defend, and some to ruin Troy ; 
Across the poet's breast a robe was flung, 
And there pourtrayed the battles that he sung. 
Next ancient Hesiod, whose mighty strains 
Were heard from earth to the celestial plains ; 
Sappho and tuneful Virgil next appear, 
Horace and Pindar pay their homage there. 
Then Shakespeare comes, with a majestic mien, 
The trumpet's sounds the greatest bard proclaim ; 
Apollo bows, and reaches forth his hand, 
Around the Muses and the Poets stand ; » 
Apollo crowns him with a wreath of light, 
Whereon is written, "Nature, Depth, and Height 
Cupid is on his robe, the dying maid 
Within the tomb of Capulets pourtrayed ; 



136 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



The field of battle, and the ocean storm, 

The solemn ghost, and Ariel's fancied form ; 

The meeting armies, and the murdered kings, 

E'en some short sketch of all created things. 

Philo, to praise the mighty bard, displayed 

The noblest scene of all the masquerade ; 

His robes he changed, the merry dance he joined 

With fair French belles, as lovely as refined. 

Through every stage of life he strove to pass, 

Resolved to see how varied Nature was : 

But here the youth was foolish, learned, and vain, 

His genius drowned in the bright champagne ; 

Wisdom departed, riot took her place, 

And led young Philo into deep disgrace. 

The scene must drop, and hide him from our sight, 

With all the follies of a drunkard's night. 

Learning is not true wisdom. — Youths may be 

Refined and polished to a high degree ; 

Genius may mark the scholar for her own, 

Yet by her brightest sons is often shown 



UENiUS A.ND INTEMPERANCE. 



137 



Minds that can soar in rapture to the skies, 

On Learning's wings — feel noblest ecstacies, 

Then sink to earth ; and, mixing with the throng, 

In Folly's path with drunkards roll along. 

With best of resolutions Philo came, 

And deeply sighed, through grief and inward shame. 

Oppressed with sickness, his ideas fled, 

His memory weakened, and an aching head ; 

A ruined appetite, a trembling hand, 

His pen obeying not his mind's command. 

To drive away the melancholy train 

Of dark ideas, he flew to wine again ; 

An ecstacy he felt in getting drunk — 

To what a depth his learned mind was sunk ! 

Then horror seized him, and his eyes rained tears, 

That all the learning of his youthful years, 

With which his father hoped to make him blessed, 

Should only leave his bosom more oppressed. 

Oft would his mind upon the Muses' wings 

Soar to the skies, and leave all earthly things ; 



138 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



Beyond mortality were Philo's strains 
Tuned to the orbs that deck the heavenly plains. 
He sung not love's soft passion, lovers' care, 
His theme the heavens, the ocean, earth, and air ; 
In deepest bursts of passion he could shine, 
And power and harmony filled every line. 
With thoughts original, with words at will, 
His verses made his readers' blood run chill, 
But not with horror, — mid the stars he trod, 
And sung th' omnipotence of Nature's God ; 
On wings of fancy his unfettered soul 
Flew far as comets soar or planets roll. 
Where undescribed Infinity had birth, 
He looked in vain for this small spot of earth, 
Beheld the Almighty's power the systems guide, 
Then asked—" What am I ? what is human pride, 
What our conceptions, learn whate'er we can, 
What is the pomp, the dignity of man, 
Compared with Him ? How mighty is the thought ! 
He spoke— the worlds, the systems sprung from 
nought ! 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



139 



Rolling in darkness all the heavenly spheres, 

He says, " Let there be light !" and light appears ; 

And when it shall be the Creator's will, 

A word can make the rolling orbs be still. 

At His command the orbs burst out in flame, 

Or fade to nothing, whence at first they came." 

At intervals, the muse of Philo sung 
In strains like these, then silent was her tongue. 
The hand that holds the fatal potion shakes, 
Invention's fled, the nervous feeling wakes ; 
His eyes have lost their fire, his faultering tongue 
Speaks not in sentences so firm and strong, 
His memory's fled, invention laid at rest— 
His heart-strings quiver in his weakened breast ; 
But still the thoughts of other bards' despair, , 
The sons of misery and rankling care, 
Prompted a last, though enervated lay, 
And this the substance of his weak essay : — 



140 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



" Where merit lives, the greatest sorrow swells, 
Fortune forsakes the spot where anguish dwells ; 
Obscure in life the man of letters mourns, 
While hope, and care, and sorrow come by turns ; 
Or if his reputation widely spread, 
Oft has he starved, and even wanted bread, 
Perished in poverty, of little note, 
While others profited by what he wrote. 

The poor blind Homer, noblest bard of all, 
Or moved by want, or pressed by hunger's call, 
Mourning in shame, he scarce durst raise his head, 
But spoke immortal verse to gain his bread. 
Plautus, whose verses made all ages smile, 
A miller was — then sat, and wrote awhile ; 
It was no shame that he, a poet born, 
Should sometimes sing, at others grind the corn. 
Xylander studied at eighteen for fame, 
His hope, his glory, was a poet's name : 
His notes on Dion Cassius, every line, 
Were sold for want, that he once more could dine ; 



GENIUS AND IMTEMPERANCE. 

Then his young vanity for ever fled, 

He thought, he studied, how to write for bread. 

Agrippa in a workhouse laid his head, 

But soon they found the great Agrippa dead ; 

Forced from his native valleys to depart, 

Despair and poverty had broke his heart. 

The tuneful Camoens sweetly strung his lyre — 

Dimmed was the poet's eye, and quenched his f 

He, who could tune his wildest notes so sweet, 

Perished from hunger in the public street ; 

Child of the Muses ! he, a poet born, 

Found, with his broken harp, a corpse at morn ! 

Upon the bard the haughty learned gaze, 

And those who* most neglected, gave him praise 

He heard it not, his noble soaring mind 

Was glad to leave such cold neglect behind. 

Tasso, in great distress, had nought to spend, 

Till he a crown had borrowed from a friend ; 

And when in study he sate up at night, 

So poor, he oft was destitute of light ; 



142 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



But soared above all want, he wrote — and praise 

Has formed his chaplet in succeeding days. 

Great Ariosto bitterly complains 

Of poets' misery, of poets' gains, 

Till great Alphonso gave a lovely spot, 

And built the bard a little rustic cot; 

When these were done, the poet's soul was glad, 

Yet he so poor, his furniture was bad ; 

He found few riches flow from poets' strings, 

And palaces and verse are different things. 

See great Lord Burleigh, fav'rite of the queen, 

When Spenser was approaching, step between 

Her and the bard whose fame through lands resounds, 

Keeping the poet from the hundred pounds : 

He thought his clerks deserved more than he — 

The child of genius and of poverty. 

But Burleigh's name detested shall be read, 

Who caused the bard to die for want of bread. 

O, poets! hope not favour from the great, 

These merit often cast beneath their feet. 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



143 



Savage, unfortunate, by want distressed, 

When cares and sorrows on his bosom pressed, 

Th' eccentric " Wand'rer" he had studied years, 

Smiled on its lines, or wet them with his tears, 

Starving through want, no silver he nor gold, 

For poor ten pounds the beauteous poem sold ; 

And mighty Milton, who could sing of heaven, 

For his great work, had just the same sum given. 

Otway and Butler suffered here in time, 

One starved, and one imprisoned for his rhyme ; 

But Chatterton, the noble-minded youth, 

Whose genius soared in hyperbole or truth, 

Whose fancy mounted on her airy wings, 

As o'er the clouds he touched his powerful strings, 

Oppressed with misery, o'ercome with care, 

Fell, early victim to a dark despair ! 

A luxury he thought a single tart, 

And study and long starving broke his heart. 

He who to water got sometimes no bread, 

We see applauded, when the youth is dead. 



144 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



Poor Boyce, who wrote " Creation," see him stand, 

White as the paper, while Death shook his hand ! 

Cold in the garret, destitute of fire, 

This son of song the world left to expire. 

No crust of cheese, and not an ounce of bread 

Found in his garret, when the bard was dead ! 

Here had he died in penury alone, 

O'er his worn shoulders an old blanket thrown, 

A skewer thrust in before to keep it fast, 

And in his hand was found his pen at last ! 

The tuneful Burns, old Scotia's darling pride, 

In his youth's bloom full prematurely died, 

Too independent was his mind to bend 

To ask a favour even from a friend ; 

He struggled hard against his adverse fate, 

And when assistance came, it came too late : 

Yet, when the harp of Burns had ceased its sounds, 

They heaped upon his dust seven thousand pounds 

I speak the truth, what every man must feel — 

This would have bought and stocked well Mossgiel ; 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



14-5 



But poets seldom rise while here they live, 
The critics break their hearts, and then a stone they 
give." 

Philo, irresolute, is still led on, 
Till health, and genius, and his strength are gone. 
The rosy cheek is pale, the manly face, 
Where Health had stamped her own strong masc'line 
grace, 

Fast shrinks away, and difficult the breath — 
He feels the woeful harbingers of death. 
Fain would he turn to his once healthful food, 
But nought he sees can do the smallest good. 
Life would die out, as tapers do expire, 
Did not strong spirits keep alive the fire. 
His old companions, true to hiin when young, 
Come to enquire, but when he hears each tongue, 
O, how he weeps I — he knows what is the cause 
Of his strong system making such a pause, 
Wishes that all the spirits e'er he drunk, 
Had deep within the mighty ocean sunk. 

L 



146 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



I leave the thoughts that press upon his mind, 
When he must leave his dearest love behind. 
The cares of earth with him will soon be o'er, 
But what a boundless ocean lies before ! 

Amply rus beheld his lovely grave, but grief 
Stifled his tongue, and tears gave no relief. 
The solemn chords, in dirges o'er the dead, 
Thrilled through his heart, and his soft bosom bled. 
The days of youth, but newly left behind, 
With all their pleasures, rushed upon his mind. 
Young Philo's sister he before had loved — 
From her his constant bosom never moved ; 
But long had absence torn their hearts in twain, 
And deep the grief when these can meet again. 
With tears fair Rosabelle her sorrows spoke, 
And all the sister in her bosom woke : 
Philo is now no more — oh ! Amph'rus, hear 
This last request — I make it with a tear. 
Philo, my brother, is untimely gone, 
And Paros' sand of genius too is run — 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 

Oh ! drink no more — stop, ere the hour come soon 
Which makes your morning sun go down at noon 
He heard and wept — he trembled for his fate — 
He would return, but feared it was too late. 
His looks were fresh, but appetite was lost, 
His mind from music to despair was tost. 
Just like a youth when running down a hill, 
And shows his action and his youthful skill, 
Who sees, at length, a gulph where he must drop, 
But, swift his motion, and he cannot stop ; 
He takes a spring, to live or rise no more — 
He's saved — his effort brings him safely o'er. 
Amph'rus beheld before the gulph of death, 
The grave wide yawning, his a feeble breath, 
Then he forsook strong spirits, drank good beer, 
He lives — and yet his noble notes I hear. 
When in the minster all the octaves swell, 
'Tis Ampfrrus' hand can touch the octaves well ; 
'Tis Amph'rus' hand can touch the soothing lute, 
'Tis Amph'rus on the viol or the flute. 



148 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



In music Amph'rus in full splendour shines, 
And will do, like the sun, if he refrain from wines. 
But, oh ! what morals do the writers make ! — 
Tis better far to give advice than take. 

Oh ! could I write that I myself could save 
From this one curse, this sure untimely grave, 
This endless want, that soon must stop my breath, 
These flaming draughts, which bring the surest death, 
Then should my Muse upon her wings advance, 
And Genius triumph o'er Intemperance. 
I know there's mirth, and there's a flash of joy, 
When friends with friends a social hour employ, 
When the full bowl is circled all around, 
And not a single jarring string is found ; 
But truest wisdom of a young man's heart, 
Is well to know the moment to depart. 
Thousands of hopeful youths, who first begin 
To mix with friends in this bewitching sin, 
Soon lose their resolution, and what then ? 
Their privilege is gone to other men, 



GENIUS AND INTEMPERANCE. 



149 



Their wealth has wasted, and the landlord, where 

They seemed so happy with his social cheer, 

When all is spent, and all resources o'er, 

Soon kicks the starving wretches out of door. 

I could employ my pen for weeks, for years, 

Write on this subject, wet it with my tears ; 

For spacious as the ocean is the scope, 

For drinking drowns all genius, wealth, and hope, 

Lies best of characters below the dust, 

And fills connexions with a deep distrust. 

But in weak verse the ills can ne'er be told — 

Eternity alone can these unfold. 

That I may know these ills, and stop in time, 

Is my last wish, as thus I end the rhyme. 



150 



THE MALT-KILN FIRE. 



When friends who loved from infant years, 
Whose friendship ne'er went wrong, 

Are met to tell their joys and cares, 
Or join the cheerful song, 

What bard but to the utmost height 

Would string the rustic lyre, 
When friends, and home-brewed drink, are met, 

Around the Malt-kiln fire ? 



THE MALT-KILN FIRE. 



Sometimes we're faring low at home, 
Then feasting with a 'squire ; 

But, we've as much as we can wish 
Around the Malt-kiln fire. 

From this warm, happy, cheerful place, 

Old sorrow must retire, 
And nought but joy dare shew her face 

Around the Malt-kiln fire. 

We talk of friends we long have known, 
Some fall'n, and some ris'n higher ; 

Happy as monarchs on the throne, 
Around the Malt-kiln fire. 

What means our food P we pass away — 

Of life begin to tire ; 
But never was a mournful day 

Around the Malt-kiln fire. 



152 



THE MALT-KILN FIRE. 



With snuff, tobacco, and a pipe, 

And all we can desire, 
Old Care's forgot, and pleasure shines 

Around the Malt-kiln fire. 

No wife to scold, none to intrude, 

We laugh until we tire ; 
With good strong drink as e'er was brewed, 

Around the Malt-kiln fire. 

Let blackguards swear, and rage, and fight, 

And seufHe in the mire ; 
No angry word, for all is right, 

Around the Malt-kiln fire. 

Had we but spent more evenings there, 

Our spirits had been higher, 
And drunk less brandy, and more beer 

Around the Malt-kiln fire. 



153 



THE MAID OF LOWDORE. 



The crest of dark Skidd aw was misty and dreary, 
The winds roared aloud near the hoarse raven's nest, 

The strongest with reaching its top would be weary, 
And, like the young lover, be wishful to rest, — 

The lover that wandered, his breast with love burning 
For Anna, the beautiful maid of Lowdore, 

Who watched the clouds as she wished his returning, 
But night came too soon — he returned no more. 

Beneath him the dark mist rolled rapid in motion ; 

Above was the evening star seen through the cloud ; 
But, the mist was as fatal to him as the ocean, 

When seas wash the lost from the wave-beaten 
shroud. 



154 



THE MAID OF LOWDORE. 



A wand'rer he roamed, where the curlew was scream- 
ing. 

Till he heard the deep roar of the lone mountain 
flood ; 

Of danger approaching he little was dreaming, 
Tho' on the high verge of dire terror he stood. 

He thought on his Anna, with earnest endeavour 

To reach the blest spot that his soul doth adore ; 
He steps — shrieks, and falls ! — but the shepherd can 
never 

Return to his love at the falls of Lowdore. 

His Anna now nightly sits listening with wonder, 
To hear in the tempest the high cataract's roar ; 

And thinks she can hear, in the midst of its thunder, 
Her shepherd call " Anna, the Maid of Lowdore !" 



155 



LINES 

ON THE CONSECRATION OF ST. PAUL'S CHURCH, 
SHIPLEY. 



How can a sinner dare to sing the praise 
Of Him on whom e'en seraphs dare not gaze, 
Whose glory shines in ev'ry varied place, 
Throughout infinity — unbounded space ! 
Who formed the hills, who arched the azure sky — 
The king of undescribed eternity ! 
Yet, let my heart with trembling rapture glow, 
My tears for all his by-past mercies flow, 
That yet I live, that yet he gives me breath, 
And saves a sinner from deserved death. 



156 LINES ON THE CONSECRATION 



O ! let my heart be tuned, the praise to sing 

Of man's great Saviour ! heaven's eternal King ! 

The universe His glorious temple is, 

His secret place the heavens — the seat of bliss ; 

But that great God who all the world commands, 

Stoops down to dwell in temples made with hands, 

Accepts the breathings of the contrite breast, 

Relieves the burdened, gives the w T eary rest. 

He hears each humble sound poor mortals make, 

Tho' his own choir the heaven of heavens can shake 

How grand the sight ! how beautiful to view 
The thousands thronging round the churches new ; 
To see the colours waving on the wind, 
The great Archbishop with his flock behind ; 
To hear the new, the dulcet virgin chime, 
Which brings to mind the day of olden time ! 
The lame are seen with crutches halt along, 
The old, the blind, are mixed with the throng ; 
E'en those who think another creed is right, 
Press on the way, to see the noble sight. 



of'shipley church. 



157 



'Twas thus, when Fountain's lofty pile of old, 

Was opened with the priests adorned in gold ; 

When all the pomp of ages long gone by, 

Burst in magnificence upon each eye. 

The grounds of Studley were with people spread, 

When the Archbishop first at Fountain said*. — 

" Lift up your heads, ye gates ! eternal doors, 

Ascend ! for God is come — that God is ours ! 

Who is the Lord ?" then burst the mighty song, 

" The God of battle, terrible and strong ! 

He comes ! he comes ! adorned with power and love., 

Ye gates, arise ! ye heavenly portals, move !" — 

The chorus bursts — his praises sound aloud, 

And God descends to bless the list'ning crowd. 

Whatever other sects shall please to say, 

Here let poor mortals find the heavenly way, 

Till moss grows on the tow'r, or on the walls, 

A nd each fine antiquated column falls ; 

Here may discordant sects unite to raise 

Loud anthems to their heavenly Father's praise ; 



158 



LINES ON THE CONSECRATION 



Before his throne in meek submission fall, 
And each one strive to crown him Lord of all ! 
Let party zeal be banished from each mind, 
And all to holiness alone inclined ; 
Let none in wild and scornful ecstacy, 
Cry out — " The temple of the Lord are we !" 
But charity let each meek pastor teach, 
And love to God and man undaunted preach ; 
Let servile fear be driven from his breast, 
And ever on his Saviour's promise rest : — 
" Lo ! I am with thee always, to defend 
And bless the gospel, till each rebel bend." 



159 



TRUE AFFECTION. 



The face of Henry faded fast, 
The fever next in crimson came ; 

Each weary day was thought the last, 
For furious was the fever's flame. 



Eliza heard, Eliza sighed, 

And often of the youth enquired ; 

Her vow was given,, and she his bride 
Was all she wished on this side heav' 



TRUE AFFECTION. 



She heard the croaking raven cry, 
Her lovely eyes of sleep bereft; 

She thought — If now my Henry die, 
There's nought for me but sorrow left. 

The fair was there, and all was mirth, 

The viols and all music play ; 
But not a joy was left on earth — 

These were to Henry flown away. 

Now, Henry's father, he was proud, 
And scorned Eliza, she was poor; 

He vowed his son should wear a shroud 
Ere he should see Eliza more. 

The fever raged, till every one 

That nursed the youth was laid near death 
The father durst not see his son, 

But feared contagion from his breath. 



TRUE AFFECTION. 



161 



Yet Henry's mother never moved, 

Stayed with the youth, and would not move ; 
When all relations say " We loved/' 

Where is such truth as mothers' love ? 

'Twas midnight, and the winds were strong, 

Henry insensible to pain, 
His pulse not likely to beat long, 

Nor his parched tongue to speak again. 

The storm beat hard against the door, 
The eaves-drops fell both loud and fast, 

The lightning blazed amid the shower, 
When, lo ! a virgin's form went past. 

i 

His mother trembled at the sight, 

Then looked if Henry yet had breath ; 

The form that passed in purest white, 
She thought the messenger of death. 

M 



TRUE AFFECTION. 



We need not lengthen out the tale ; 

It was Eliza came to pray, 
Amid the storm of rain and hail, 

That she might with her Henry stay. 

She spoke, but spoke as in despair, 
" Is yet my Henry's spirit here ? 

O let me stay ! I will not care, 
Tho' death in every form appear." 

Softly in grief the mother spoke, 
" Eliza, why in such a plight ?" 

She says, " My heart will sure he broke. 
If I see not your son to-night" 

The mother's pity melted then, 
She softly crept tow r ards the door ; 

She let the storm-drenched maiden in — 
She came, but home returned no more. 



TRUE AFFECTION. 



163 



All dropping she to Henry flew, 
In time to catch his parting breath, 

That kiss she to her bosom drew, 

And soon with him was lain in death. 



164 



ODE TO LAURA. 



Softly sighing will I mourn 

The blossom that was nipped in spring, 
Hang a chaplet on the urn 

Of lovely Virtue's blossoming. 

O'er her no praise shall marble bear, 
Those pageants vain of solemn pride ; 

Tho' all on earth I held most dear, 
Forsook me when my Laura died. 



ODE TO LAURA. 



Oh ! 'tis in vain — I'll cease to try 

To write in characters my sorrow deep, 

For could I write a river dry, 
My eyes another sea could weep. 

But words can never shew the worth 
Of her who was too rich to stay, 

Mourning on a joyless earth, 
When fit for everlasting day. 



166 



LINES TO A FRIEND. 



Where's my harp my soul to cheer P 
Its tones were wont to glad my breast ; 

Where's my friend, who dried each tear, 
Encouraged me, and I was blest P 

Is he gone ? my only stay, 

On whom my brightest hopes were placed ; 
Is that friendship fled away, 

And its heavenly form defaced ? 



LINES TO A FRIEND. 



167 



Has some action, undesigned, 

Quenched the spark that once was bright ? 
Or my wild eccentric mind 

Thrown a veil 'twixt me and light ? 

Friendship ! O, thou glorious star, 
Though deeply clouded, yet appear ; 

Wander not from me so far, 
Nor leave me thus oppressed with care. 

But if thou art for ever fled, 

In darkness I am left to mourn ; 

Pleasure, hope, and comfort dead, 
And raptures never can return. 



168 



THE DESERTED MAID. 



To some gloomy cave will I wander away, 
Where waterfalls foam through each cleft, 

And there shun the light of the pleasant spring day, 
Since I by my lover am left. 

There hang, ye dried ferns, in the sad dampy shade, 

Ye owls, fly around me in scorn, 
As ye hoot at a maid by her lover betrayed, 

Whose features with weeping are worn. 



THE DESERTED MAID. 



169 



O let not a flower be seen in the field, 

Nor daisies spring up near my feet ; 
Thou beautiful hill, no more primroses yield, 

Where my lover and I used to meet. 

Ye eglantines, keep your sweet scent in the bud, 

Nor throw it away to the wind ; 
Ye hyacinths, blossom no more in the wood, 

Where I on his bosom reclined. 

But wither, like me, ev'ry cowslip and rose, 
Nor bloom in your beautiful charms, 

As you did when this bosom knew nothing of woes, 
Lulled to peace in a false lover's arms. 

Ye stockdoves I fed in the cold chilling frost, 

Let your cooings be accents of pain, 
In woe sing, ye birds, that my lover is lost, 

Till the grottos re-echo the strain. 



170 



THE DESERTED MAID. 



The gems that he bought in my bosom I'll bear, 

I only the jewels will view, 
And dim their bright lustre with many a tear, 

Which springs from a bosom that's true. 

When life has ebbed out to the last fatal day, 
And this bosom heaves feebly for breath, 

If then I can speak, for my Edwin I'll pray, 
And show that; I loved him in death. 



171 



THE HUNTERS' DIRGE. 



Ye woods, in Rishworth's verdant vale, 
Which oft have echoed to the horn ! 

Ye rocky hills, that blushed so deep, 
From Hunters gay at early morn ! 

Weep, till your tears in crystal rills 
Make winding Aire with grief run o'er, 

That on the brown-robed heathy hills, 
The huntsman's shout is heard no more. 



172 



THE HUNTERS' DIRGE. 



Ye Nimrods old, who heard the sounds 
By changing echos borne away, 

Who crossed the moors in joyful chase, 
And pleasure, on the sportive day ! 

Go sit, where you unearthed the fox, 
And mourn till echo hear and weep ; 

Wet, with your tears, the time-worn rocks, 
That modern 'squires no huntsmen keep ; 

Mourn o'er great Parker's ancient race ; 

Round Marley-Hall in sorrow tread ; 
Where dwelt the glory of the chase, 

Who oft the noble sportsmen led, 

Then take the horn, the requiem blow, 
O'er rural bliss that now is lost, 

And sound the dirge o'er those laid low, 
Who never sighed at hunting's cost ! 



173 



LINES ON A CALM SUMMER'S NIGHT 



The Night is calm, the cygnet' s down 
Scarce skims the lake along ; 

The throstle to the hazle's flown, 
To trill his evening song. 

The curling woodbine now appears 
More sweet than fragrant gems, 

The sky a robe of crimson wears, 
The scale-clad beetle hums. 

What pleasure, walking with my Jane, 

Earth's truest, best delight, 
Returning to embrace again, 

And loath to bid good night 



174 



THE ABSENT LOVER. 



In vain the youths and rosy maids 

All wish me to be gay, 
For health declines, and pleasure fades, 

While Henry's far away. 

The birds may strain their warbling throats, 

Upon the blossomed spray, 
But there's no music in their notes, 

When Henry's far away. 

The sweets of June, the hill, the dale, 

With Nature's beauties gay, 
A ppear to me but winter pale, 

When Henry's far away. 



THE ABSENT LOVER. 



The evening moments creep but slow, 
And dulPs the brightest clay; 

For none my anxious cares can know, 
When Henry's far away. 

My trembling harp no pleasure yields, 

My hands forget to play ; 
No joy at home, nor in the fields, 

While Henry's far away. 

The hours which now I think my best, 

I wish them not to stay ; 
For nought on earth can make me rest, 

While Henry's far away. 

Phaeton, cord afresh thy whip, 

And on thy coursers lay, 
To make them o'er the azure skip, 

While Henry's far away. 



THE ABSENT LOVER. 

And Night, upon thy sable throne, 
Be scarce an hour thy stay : 

But, bid the weeks be swiftly gone, 
While Henry's far away. 

Then, on the wings of rosy Health 

May he be swiftly borne ; 
For more to me than worlds of wealth 

Will be his blest return. 



177 



A FRAGMENT. 



ALCASTO. 

Banish the wealthless virgin from thy thoughts ! 
Or eminence and wealth are from thee far 
As from the beggar is the monarch's crown. 

REGINALD. 

Break Nature's laws, and send me to the world 
In my worst suit, no king in miniature, 
Stamped on rich ore, to be my passport through, 
I'll love her still ! Our passions now are mixed, 
As are the waters of two meeting rills. 
Ours is superior love, as rarely found 
As is the phoenix burning on her nest. 

N 



178 



A FRAGMENT. 



I saw and loved her when she rowed along, 
The lake unruffled, save with her white skiff. 
Had she been absent there, I could have seen, 
Upon the bosom of the polished lake, 
Inverted trees, and rocks, and crimson clouds, 
Tinged with the lustre of the setting sun ; 
But all I now remember seemed a sky, 
And she like Dian on th' inverted arch, 
Skimming in modest majesty along — 
With her she took my heart : and can your wealth. 
Your honours, influence, or wide estates, 
Purchase a form as fair, a richer skiff ; 
Give to another nymph that voice T heard, 
Teach Myra's song, and make such echos join? 
Do these — her image I will strive V efface, 
Tho* painted on the canvass of my heart. 

ALCASTO. 

Is not Romilius more lovely far, 
Possessing wealth, and modesty, and wit ; 
So virtuous, that the night's unhealthy wind 
Blasts not her cheeks to make her blushes fade. 



A FRAGMENT. 



179 



REGINALD. 

Know you my Myra's worth ? Has Slander spoke? 
No — earth's three darkest demons all are mute. 
She takes her soft guitar, and sings so sweet, 
That gloomy, callous-hearted Envy weeps, 
Shrinks to the shades where meagre Malice sits ; 
But both are charmed, their vices lose, and gaze 
Upon her beauty, and return to praise. 

# * *■ * #■ # 



180 



THE GATHERING 

OF THE 

CRAVEN WARRIORS. 



The trumpet shrill sounded at Farnhill-Hall, 

And echoed in Eastburn-Dale ; 
The Stevetons heard the martial call, 

And soon were in helmet and mail. 

They answered the sounds, and the valley below 

In the noblest echos replied ; 
The Leaches and Starkeys, with quiver and bow, 

Bade adieu to the new-married bride. 



CRAVEN WARRIORS. 



181 



At Riddlesden-Hall the banner is raised, 

Which the warrior Parkers behold, 
Then the sun-beams upon their armour blazed, 

And their helmets glittered like gold. 

At Farnhill-Hall great Currer stood, 
Down the valley he glanced his eyes, 

And his warriors shouted in Hawcliffe wood, 
As they saw his banners arise. 

The fair young heiress poured out the wine ; 

Young Tempest, on charger gray, 
Rode up to the hall, as they formed the line, 

With Clifford to march away. 

The Neviles were there, on their chargers dark, 

And they tost the foam around, 
And these were the youths that could hit the mark, 

And bring the foe to the ground. 



182 



CRAVEN WARRIORS. 



The youths of old Skipton beheld them advance, 

They met them with trumpet and drum, 
With bow, sword, and quiver, the breast- plate and 
lance — 

They shouted — " Let Highlanders come." 

The plumes o'er the helmets wave white in the wind, 

As swift to the castle they ride; 
Not a knight that was there but his true loyal mind 

In the cause of his chief had been tried. 

The hard flinty stones seemed war to proclaim, 

And fury, when armies should meet, 
For the blue rocky pavement burst out into flame, 

And blazed round the fierce chargers' feet. 

From the castle rode Clifford, a brave noble knight, 
And his charger pranced swift on the ground, 

His mane waved on high, and the bridle was white 
With the foam which he scattered around. 



CRAVEN WARRIORS. 



183 



In the court of the castle short time was their stay, 
They drank, and then quickly rode on ; 

In firmness and silence they galloped away, 
And wished that the battle was won. 

From the roofs of the towers the ladies looked far, 
Till distance hid all from their sight, 

Then fervently prayed that the God of the war 
Would be their strong shield in the fight. 



184 



LINES 

SPOKEN AT THE ANNIVERSARY MEETING AT LEEDS, 
TO CELEBRATE THE BIRTH-DAY OF BURNS, 
1826. 



Learning has many a rhymer made, 
To flatter near the throne, 

Eut Scotia's genius has displayed 
A poet of her own. 

His lyre he took to vale and glen, 
To mountain and the shade ; 

Cent'ries may pass away, but when 
Will such a harp be played ? 



BURNS'S BIRTH-DAY. 



His native strains each bard may try, 

But who has got his fire ? 
Why, none — for Nature saw him die, 

Then took away his lyre. 

And for that lyre the learned youth 
May search the world in vain : 

She vowed she ne'er would lend it more 
To sound on earth again ; 

But called on Fame to hang it by- 
She took it with a tear, 

Broke all the strings to bind the wreath 
That Burns shall ever wear. 



186 



THE DYING LOVER. 



Ah ! soon, sweet maid, this heart of mine 

Will give its beating o'er ; 
This weary aching head recline 

Upon thy breast no more. 

These hands can pluck no more for thee 

The heather's purple bloom ; 
No more must I accompany 

My lovely Mary home. 



THE DYING LOVER. 



But, hush ! — those sighs of fragrant breath, 

The lovely crystal tear, 
Can no impression make on Death, 

Or keep me longer here. 

Go, touch my sweet piano's strings, 

And chaunt me into rest, 
Till angels come, and on their wings 

Convey me to the blest. 

And mourn not as [ soar away 

To tune my harp on high ; 
Useless the tears upon my clay, 

For Pm prepared to die. 



188 



THE MUSE. 



What means it tho' the poet's cot 
Be placed in some sequestered spot, 
Where oaks, and elms, and beeches grow, 
Or on the heath, where rushes bow, 
In vales, where peaceful graze the flocks, 
Or near the mossy- vestured rocks ? 
Romantic scenes can ne'er indite, 
Nor situations make him write. 
'Tis genius must his breast inspire, 
And light the true, poetic fire. 
Without it he may read and pore 
Ancient and modern classics o'er, 
May walk in ruins late or soon, 
While thro' the arches shines the moon, 



THE MUSE. 



189 



Where sleeps the abbot, monk, or friar ; 
But if he has not Nature's lyre, 
Nor ancient ruins, nor the woods, 
The rippling rills, the foaming floods, 
Embattled fields, nor ancient hall, 
Romantic scenes, where cataracts fall, 
Nor works of other authors' pens, 
Nor Cumbria's lakes, nor Highland glens, 
Nor all the scenes which ever graced 
The paintings of a man of taste, 
Not all the arts the scribblers use, 
Can make a bard without the Muse„ 



190 



FEMALE CONSTANCY. 



Stars thro 5 rolling centuries shine, 
Nor does their lustre ever fade ; 
And thus the virtues of the maid 
Glitter when her form's decayed, 

With beauteous radiance divine, 
Who never sighed to any swain 
But one, and constant doth remain, 

Still rememb'ring him with care, 
Before the Maker of the spheres 
She breathes for him incessant prayers, 
And not another youth appears, 

That wounds the bosom of the fair : 



FEMALE CONSTANCY. 



And can the youth deceive such love, 
And conscience never once reprove ? 

Maids to flowers have been compared, 
But flowers of sweetest scent decay : 
So doth the fair, who runs astray 
From Virtue's sweet sequestered way, 

Whose heart to many a youth is shared ; 
While she who true thro' life has been, 
Falls like a branch of evergreen. 



192 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. 



Weep, all ye birds, ye bow'rs ; 

Ye friends, a vigil keep ; 
Send forth your tears, ye flowers, 
Let all who knew her weep, 
That she is gone who in your circle smiled, 
Far from her husband, from her lovely child ! 

The loved, the virtuous wife, 

Has entered into rest, 
Too weak for cares of life, 
Called to her Father's breast; 
While like a cherub her sweet babe appears, 
And smiles, unconscious of a father's tears. 



ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG LADY. 



Her bounty cheered the poor, 

Her hands the needy fed ; 
Now all her pains are o'er, 
Now that sweet flower is dead, 
And her glad spirit flown on seraph's wings, 
To strike the Christian's harp where David sin 



o 



194 



SONG. 



The birks may wave, the heath may bloom, 
The lasses trip the mountains o'er, 

And deck their breasts with blossomed broom, 
But I can touch my harp no more. 

The lambs may skip, the fishes sport, 
And glitter in their woodland rills, 

But I no more the muse can court, 
Where thyme perfumes the purple hills. 

There oft my sweet Elvina sung, 

And softly trilled the rural lay, 
Till raptures in my bosom sprung, 

" As pleasure winged my hours away." 



SONG. 



But Nature now is fresh in vain, 
The richest gifts to me are poor, 

For bliss can never come again, 
And I can touch my harp no more. 

No more with joy can T behold 

Elvina, decked with heather bloom ; 

The hand which oft I pressed is cold, 
The heart that loved me in the tomb, 

But still she lives in realms of day, 
Far distant from a world of pain : 

O ! could I soar to her away, 

Then would I touch my harp again. 



196 



DIRGE. 



Blest may my children be, 
When death shall carry me 
Into eternity, 

Ne'er to return ; 
When the fast-falling tear 
Drops on their father's bier, 
May some true friend be near, 
While they all mourn. 

I now have had my prime, 
Till there is nought in time 
But Care's high hill to climb, 
Weary and faint; 



DIRGE. 



Pleasure is fled away, 
Grief is resolved to stay 
With me by night and day, 
Terrors to paint. 

What is bright glory's beam ? 
Why, 'tis an empty dream, 
Or as the meteor's gleam 

Crossing the sky. 
Can riches pleasures bring ? 
No — cares oppress a king, 
All earthly joys but sting, 

Deep as they fly. 

Nothing but Virtue can 
Give comfort unto man, 
Whose life is scarce a span, 

Wasting away : 
Honour is but a shade, 
Like beams on rain displayed, 
Whose colours quickly fade, 

Ere ends the day. 



DIRGE. 



Thus shall our sorrows end : 
May we have one great Friend, 
Through whom we can ascend 

Far beyond pain ; 
There may my children come, 
May we all find a home, 
Far, far beyond the tomb, 

In bliss to reign ! 



199 



TO THE CRITICS. 



Sat down by my wee rusted lyre, 
And musing which way to get thro', 

Ye quenchers of poets' best fire, 
How oft have I trembled at you ! 

The vulture may seize the young lamb, 
The raven may torture the dove, 

And critics may tell what I am, 
But O let your censures be love ! 

Ye weighers of man's little wit, 

Which comes in a book to your eye, 

Like spiders on cobwebs you sit, 
To mangle and murder a fly. 



TO THE CRITICS. 



Write your praise or dispraise for the great, 

And rail on the muse of a lord, 
Shoot at those who are laughing at fate, 

And strike with your fame-killing sword. 

But come to my cottage, and view 
What feathers I have for my wings, 

And then you will own there are few 
In my station durst strike at the strings. 

I gaze on my children asleep, 

Assured that their lot is but hard ; 

Yes, while I write verses, I weep, 

When I think their best friend is the bard. 



NOTES. 



Page 1, line 10. 

All these are seen near Bar den' s ancient tower. 

" Barden was so called, from Bar and Dene, the valley of the 
wild boar, and was well adapted to the habits of that animal, 
from the deep solitude of its woods, and the profusion of acorns 
which they must have shed. The forest stretches near four miles 
on the banks of the river Wharf, from the confines of Burnsall 
to those of Bolton. The buildings of the inhabitants are thatch- 
ed, and generally supported on crooks, and carry back the 
imagination at least three centuries. Barden, in the 4th. of 
Edward Second, had six lodges for the accommodation of the 
keepers, and protection of deer. — These were often square towers, 
constructed for defence, and may be considered as a kind of 
minor castles ; one of which, Henry Lord Clifford enlarged, pre- 
fering the retreat of Barden to the bustle of greater houses. It 
appears from an old compotus, that in 1517, five years after the 
battle of Flodden, wages at Barden were paid to more than fifty 
servants." 



202 



NOTES. 



Page 3, line 10. 

And find the cavern of the furious boar. 

From a passage of one of the earliest charters of Skipton, it 
appears that the forests of Craven were enclosed with a pale. 
The Saxon forests, as far as is known, lay open, and the practice 
of enclosing these immense tracts must have been introduced by 
the Norman lords. The animals nourished in these inclosures, 
were the stag, the wild boar, and the fallow deer. 

Page 6, line 5. 

Then high o'er Holer's hill, whose sable crest. 

" The dark brown mountain of Hober, with its rivals, Barden 
Fell and Simon Seat, are among the most noble features in the 
beautiful scenery of Bolton ; and close the landscapes with a 
most noble barrier of majestic grandeur." 

Page 23, line 5. 

The blazing pitch on Penighent fell down. 

" These four mighty hills, having a view of each other, would 
undoubtedly be provided with beacons, to give warning of the 
approach of the enemy, and remains of such places are to be 
seen on their summits." 

Page 24, line 10. 

The field ere noon was quickly changed to red. 

There can be little doubt, that independant of the followers, 
tenants, and dependants of Henry Lord Clifford, which are enu- 



NOTES. 



203 



merated in the list belonging to Craven, many of the surround- 
ing knights, with their followers, would accompany them in 
the defence of their families and property. 

Page 26, line 9. 

Old Scotland's army had marched boldly forth. 

Thomas Howard, Earl of Surry, while King Henry VIII. was 
in France, had the command of the English ; while James, King 
of Scotland, attended with the earls Lennox and Argyle, marched 
with his army and met them at a little town called Brankston, 
under Flodoun hill. The battle being so well known in history, 
will be remembered by almost every reader. 

Page 28, line 9. 

The eagles from Helvellyn's craggy height. 

" Before the battaill black cloudes poured down upon them 
store of funerall teares, enarching the ayre with a spatious raine- 
bowe, and discharging sundry tyre and peale of thunder. The 
sunne also would gladly have hid his face, by thrusting it under 
a partial eclypse. At the same time also, sholes and cloudes of 
baleful ravens, and other birdes of prey and ravin, as foreshewing 
the harvest of carcases, came flying over the hostes." 

Old History of England, 1605. 

Page 32, line 1. 

Hundreds of names with care great Clifford kept. 

This is literally true, as his household book testifies. These 
curious manuscripts are in the possession of the Rev. W. Carr, 



204 



NOTES. 



of Bolton Priory, whose kindness I have to acknowledge, in being 
able to lay before my readers, a list of the followers of Henry 
Lord Clifford ; who, no doubt, were engaged with him on Flodden 
Field, and some of whose names are embodied in the Lyre of 

Ebor. 



Taken from the Household Book of Henry Lord Clifford, 
DATED ANNO HENR. OCTAVI SECUNDO. 



MART ON FOR MOSTERS. 



Will-m Marton, a bowe, and 

horse and harnes. 
Nicoles Symson, a bowe, able, 

and horse and harnes. 
Thomas Stokdall, a bille, and 

horse and harnes 
Robt. Stokdall, a bille also. 
John Roberts, a bowe also. 
Ric- Arnald, a bowe also. 



John Thomlynson, able, a p-son, 
a bille. 

Ric. Bulkok, a bowe, able, and 
p-son. 



Robt. Rosendall, a bille. 

To he horsed and harnessed at 
the towne cost. 



Thomas Medopp, p-sone, able, 

and horse and harnes. 
John Malham, also. 
Xrofer Styrke, also. 

John Swyer Junior, able, and 

p-son 

Will-m Robert, able and p-son. 



GERSYNTON. 



John Clerk, a bowe, able, and 

horse and harnes 
John Wilkynson, a bowe also. 



George Knolle, a bowe also. 
Lennard Hibotson, a bowe also. 



NOTES, 



205 



ADYNGHAM. 



William Wade, able, horse and 

harnes. 
Henry Man, archer also. 
Richard Cryer, archer also. 
Richard Rylyley, archer also. 
Richard Lofthouse, able, bille 

also. 



Thomas Stotte, archer also. 
Christopher Swyre, archer also. 
Thomas Barker, archer also. 
John Grene, a bille also. 

Horsed and harnessed on the 
towne cost. 



HAWKYSWYK. 

William Calvard, archer, able I Arthur Redyman, archer, able 
in horse and harnes. | also. 



FLASBY. 



William Hesffeld, a man, able, 
horse and harnes. 

Rich. Lister, a bille also. 

Will-m Blackborne, a bille also. 

Stephen Proctor, to fynde one 
able man, and horse and har- 
nes. 



Roger Proctor, a bille also. 
Lyonell Whytfeld, a bille also. 
Rauffe Procter, to fynde a man, 

horse and harnes. 
Robt. Snelle, archer, horsed and 

harnessed. 



LYTTONDALL. 



John Knolle, able, horse and 

harnes, a bille. 
Abrahme Knolle, a bille also. 
Rich. Franklyn, a bowe also. 



Rich. Fawcytt, a bowe also. 
J ohn Franklyn, a bowe also. 
Jack Fylson, a bowe also. 



ARNECLYFF. 



J ohn Knolle, a bowe, able, and I Oliver Knolle, a bowe also, 
horse and harnes. | Robt. Fylson, a bille also. 



206 



NOTES. 



LANGSTROTHDALE. 



Rich. Tenant, a bowe, able, and 

horse and names. 
Geoffery Tenant, a bowe also. 
John Tenant, a bowe also. 



Thomas Slyngr. a bowe also. 
William Tenant, also a bowe. 
Lenard Jake, a bowe also. 



G YGRESWYCK. 



Robt. Stakhouse, a bowe, able, 

and horse and harnes. 
John Webster, a bowe also. 
Thomas Palay, a bowe also. 



James Carr, a bowe also. 
Thomas Browne, a bille also. 
Jack Stakhouse, a bowe also. 



SETTYLL. 



Rich. Browne, a bowe, able, and 

horse and harnes. 
Will-m Talyr, a bowe also. 
Oliver Foster, a bowe also. 
Rich. Cokeson, a bowe also. 
Will-m Knolle, a bille also. 



Adam Browne, a bill also. 
Rogr. Yveson, a bowe also. 
Rawlyn Lawson, a bowe also. 
Allen Proctor, a bille also. 
Henry Hoelson, a bowe also. 
Rich. Carr, a bill also. 



STONE FORD. 



James Foster, a bowe, able, 

horse and harnes. 
Adam Palay, a bowe also. 
Robt. Twisleton, a bowe also. 



Rich. Franklyn, a bowe also. 
Rich. Chew, a bowe also. 
James Armisted, a bille also. 



LANGCLYFF. 

Rich. Browne, a bowe, able, I Rogr. Yveson, a bowe also, 
horse and harnes. | Henry Pacock, a bille also. 



GLOSEBORNE. 

Will-m Mamond, a bowe, able, | Robt. Som-rscale, a bowe also, 
horse and harnes. 



NOTES. 



207 



THORLEBY. 

Will-m Brochden, a bille, able, I Robt. Burgeas, a bille also, 
horse and harnes. | Thomas Bacock, a bille also. 

EMBSAY AND ESBY. 

Thomas Alcock, a bowe, able, Will-m Cate, of Esby, a bille 

horse and harnes. also. 
Thomas Croft, a bow also. John Pety, of Esby, a bowe also. 



H ALTON, 

Robt. Burley, a bowe, able, horse I Francis Shyres, a bowe also, 
and harnes. | Will-m West, a bowe also. 



S TETON. 



Rich. Garford, a bowe, able, 

horse and harnes. 
John Garford, a bowe also. 
John Parkynson, a bille also. 
John Whetakers, a bowe also. 
Will-m Smyth, a bowe also. 



Will-m Estburne, a bille also. 
Stephen Tyllotson, a bowe, able, 

horse and harness. 
Thomas Smyth Junior, a bowe 

also. 



SUTTON. 

John Blakay, a bowe, wt. horse I John Parkynson, a bowe also, 
and harnes. 



KYLDWYK. 

John Garford, a bowe, wt. horse j Edward Garford, a bowe also, 
and harnes. | Rich. Herreson, a bill also. 



COLLYNG. 



Pers. Tyllotson, a bill, wt. horse 

and harnes. 
Xrofer Lakok, a bowe also. 



Nicoles Starburgh, a bowe also. 
Henry Waller, a bowe also. 



208 



NOTES. 



BE AMES LEY. 



John Holme, a bowe, able, horse 

and harnes. 
Thomas Frankland, a bowe also. 



Ric. Shyers, a bille also. 
Thomas Kendal, a bille, 
horse and harnes. 



wt. 



APPLE TRE WYCK. 



Henry Young, a bowe, able, 

horse and harnes. 
Will-m Wat, a bowe also. 
Will-m Hogg, a bille also. 



Thomas Preston, a bowe. 
Robt. Elson, a bowe also. 
Cuthbt. Wynterb-n, a bille also. 
Henry Young, bille and bowe. 



ESSE TON. 
Thomas Marton, a bowe, able, horse and harnes. 



BRADLEY. 



Will-m Smyth, a bowe, able, 

horse, and harnes. 
Th. Slys, a bowe also. 



Th. Grenewood, a bowe also. 
Xrist. Smyth, a bowe also. 



FARNHYLL. 



Henry Curror, a bowe, wt. horse 

and harnes. 
Edward Salley, a bowe also. 



Robt. Bradley, a bowe also. 
Will-m Wylson, a bowe also. 



MORTON BANKES. 



John Rogerson, a bowe, able, 
horse and harnes. 



Rich. Holynrake, a bowe also. 
Will-m Woode, a bowe also. 



KIGHELEY. 

John Rawson, a bowe, wt. horse I Thomas Sowden, bille also, 
and harnes. | Will-m Buterfeld, a bowe also 



NOTES. 



209 



Xrofer Ruddy ng, a bo we also. 
John Shaw, a bowe also. 
John Brigg, a billc also. 
John Stott, a bowe also. 
Thomas Lakok, a bille also. 
John Cokroffte, a bowe also. 
Robt. Wryght, a bowe also. 
Robt. Wryght Junior, a bowe 
also. 



Will-m Hertley, a bowe also. 
Will-m Estburne, a bille also. 
Lawr. Amblar, able, a bowe also. 
Rich. Trittyll, a bowe also. 
Robt. Hudson, a bowe also. 
John Sugden, a bowe also. 
Rich. Sharppe, a bowe also. 
John Weddoppe, a bille also. 



BOLTON IN BOLAND. 



Will-m Stott, a bow, able, horse 

and harnes. 
Henry Garnett, a bowe also. 



Robt. Caly, a bowe also. 
Th. Pele, a bylle also. 



RIMYNTON. 



Henry Brerelay, a bow, able, 

horse and harnes. 
Henry Arthyngton, a bowe also. 



James Oddy, a bowe also. 
John Kay, a bowe also. 



HELIFIELD AND NEWTON. 



John Carr, a bowe, able, horse 

and harnes. 
John Clark, a bylle also. 



John Hardaker, a bowe also. 
Th. Badsby, a bowe also. 



CARLTON. 



Robt. Temp-st, a bowe, able, 

horse and harness. 
Robt. Dawtree, a bowe also. 



John Thomson, a bowe also. 
Henry Wattkynson, a bowe also. 



LYTTONDALE. 

Adam Langstroth, a bille. j Rauffe Knolle, a bille. 

J ames Knolle, a bille. j Matthew Knolle, a bille. 



P 



210 



NOTES. 



Will-m Thorneton, a bille. 
Jak. Ellison, a bille. 
Thomas Ellison, a bille. 
Rogr. Franklyn, a bow. 
John Franklyn, a bow. 
Robt. Stoneford, a bille. 
Henry Bulkok, a bille. 



Henry Franklyn, a bowe. 
John Walker, a bowe. 
Rogr. Tennant, a bowe. 
Thomas Wederhirde, a bowe. 
Jakob Tennant, a bill. 
Henry Fylson, a bowe. 
John Coward, a bille. 



ARNECLYFF. 



Will-m Fyrrth, a bowe. 
Rich. Clebenger, a bille. 
Ptr. Pras, a bille. 
John Carlyll, also. 



Rich. Atkynson, a bow. 
John Wilson, a bow. 
John Atkynson. 



LANGSTROTH. 



Rauffe Tennant, a bowe. 
James Parker, a bowe. 
Will-m Langstroth, a bowe. 
Geffory Walker, a bowe. 
Thomas Tennant, a bowe. 
Will-m Tennant, a bowe. 



Adam Wilkynson, bille. 
John Faldshaw, bowe. 
Xrofer Hogg, also. 
Rich. Smith, also. 
James Case, also. 
Xrofer Slyng, a bille. 



SETTYLL, 



Rich. Tenant, bille, 
Alan Proctor, also. 
Edward Lawson, also. 
Adam Browne, a bowe. 
Oliver Taleyor, also. 
Thomas Sume-skale, bille. 
Will-m Symson, also. 
Robt. Taleyor, also. 
John Watkynson, also. 
Will-m Lawson, also. 
Will-m Carr, a bowe. 
Nicoll Carr, bille. 



Robt. Medoppe, a bille. 
Rich. Londe, a bowe. 
Rich. Jakson, also. 
Rogr. Carr, also. 
Hug. Carr, also. 
Will-m Taleyor, also. 
Gyles Kokeson, also. 
George Kokeson, also. 
John Kokeson, also. 
John Holson, also. 
Rich. Lawson, also. 



NOTES. 



211 



Rich. Brashay, a bowe. 
Rich. Wylson, also. 
Robt. Burton, a billc. 
John Brashay, a bowe. 
Thomas Taleyor, also. 
Thomas Preston, also. 
John Stakhouse, also. 



GYGRESWYCK. 

Will-m Ryley, also. 
Thomas Armested, also. 
Henry Armested, also. 
John Taleyor, also. 
Henry Taleyor, also. 
Thomas Newhouse, also. 
Olivr. Stakhouse, also. 



STONEFORD. 



Adam Palay, a bille. 
Rogr. Lawson, also. 
Rogr. Swaynson, a bowe. 
Rich. Palay, also. 
James Armested, a bille. 
John Kokeson, a bowe. 



Olivr. Armested, also. 
Henry Lawkland, also. 
Will-m Foster, a bille. 
John Yveson, also. 
Rogr. Yveson, a bowe. 



Robt. Kydson, bille. 
Rich. Kyng, also. 
Robt. Kydd, also. 



Ellis Hall, bowe. 
John Butt-feld, bille. 
Rich. Rycrotfte, also. 
John Netherwode, also. 
Edwarde Rawson, bowe. 
Robt. Bothomly, also. 
Rich. Shawe, also. 
Thomas Stotte, also. 
Rich. Jenkynson, also. 
Will-m Denby, bill. 
Will-m Sugden, also. 
John Clough, also. 
Will-m Smyth, also. 
Robt. Lupton, bille. 



LANGCLYFF. 

Will-m Yveson, also. 
John Stakhouse, a bill. 
Rog. Browne, a bowe. 

KYGHLEY. 

Elles Waddysworth, also. 
! Will-m Roper, also. 
| Will-m Farnell, also. 
; Robt. Stelle, also. 
Will-m Jakson, a bowe, 
John Hanson, also. 
Robt. Rawson, also. 
Rich. Shakylton, also. 
Edward More, also. 
James Proctor, bille. 
Robt. Sugden, also. 
John Oidfeld, also. 
John Weddopp, also. 
Henry Beneland, bowe. 



212 



NOTES. 



MORTON BANKS. 



Will-m Rog-son, bowe. 
John Fuller, bille. 
Will-m Leche, also. 
John Leche, also. 



Will-m Sharppe, bowe. 
Will-m Adamson, bille. 
Edmond Dobson, also. 
Adam Wodde, also. 



BOLTON BY BOLAND. 



Hum' ray Pykhard, a bowe. 
Th. Pykhard, a bow. 
John Wyglesworth, a bowe. 
John Garnett, a byll. 
Th. Burk, a byll. 



Rich. Calmlers, a bowe. 
Th. Toot, a bowe. 
.Robt. Walbank. 
Will-m Knott, a byll. 
Will-m Catley, a bowe. 



RIM YNG TON. 



Robt. Calmley, a bow. 
Robt. Tatersall, a byll. 
Robt. Calmley, Junr. a bow. 
Th. Walar, a byll. 
Rich. Hoghton, a bow. 
Will-m Carr, a bow. 
Gyles Loge, a bow. 



Robt. Forte, a bow. 
Christ. Pykhard, a bow. 
Th. Land, a byll. 

Rogr. 

Robt. Dansar, a bow. 
Christ. Hornby, a bow. 
Rich. Walar, a byll. 



HELYFELD AKD NEWTON 



Th. Wray, a bow. 
Henry Carr, a bow. 
Will-m Forte, a byll. 



Th. Hardakers, a byll. 
Rog. Hardakers, a bowe. 



CARLTON. 



Rich. Scarburgh, a bowe. 
Rich. Stapylton, a bow. 
John Smyth, a bow. 
Will-m Thorp, a bow. 



Th. Medybrok, a bow. 
James Smith, a bow. 
John Rycroft, a bow, 



NOTES. 



213 



Dr. Whitaker, in the History of Craven, makes the following 
observation : — 

" The enumeration of Lord Clifford's followers, on this occa- 
sion, in the old metrical history of Flodden Field, is so local and 
exact, that it would be unpardonable to omit it." 

* From Penigent to Pendle Hill, 
From Linton to Long Addingham, 
And all that Craven coasts did till, 
They with the lusty Clifford came ; 
All Staincliffe hundred went with him, 
With striplings strong from Wharledale, 
And all that Hauton hills did climb, 
With Longstroth eke and Litton Dale, 
Whose milk-fed fellows, fleshy bred, 
Well brown' d with sounding bows upbend ; 
All such as Horton Fells had fed 
On Clifford's banners did attend.' 

" He survived the battle of Flodden ten years, and died April 
23, 1523, aged about 70. — By his last will he appointed his body 
to be interred at Shap, if he died in Westmorland ; or at Bolton, 
if he died in Yorkshire." 

Page 21, line 10. 

Three times we have seen the great cross of our sires 
Destroyed as a brand in the plunderers' fires. 

"The cross was once regarded as an instrument of horror and 
detestation, as the instrument of the most dreadful punishment, 
and the vilest of criminals were only subject to its ignominy. 



214 



NOTES. 



Constantine first abolished the use of it among the Romans 
He rescued it from an appropriation to purposes that rendered it 
an object of aversion, and made it reverenced and beloved. It 
was carved on his military standards after he embraced Christi- 
anity, engraven on his banners, and esteemed as the noblest 
ornament of his diadem. His veneration for this sacred trophy, 
is said to have had a miraculous origin. He was himself the 
historian of the appearance, and he sanctiond the truth of his 
narrative, with the solemnity of an oath. — About mid-day he saw 
in the heavens, a luminous representation of the cross, placed 
above the sun, and accompanied by an inscription in Latin, " By 
this I conquer." He it was who first made the cross an object of 
veneration ; and through centuries christians have reverenced it 
as a memorial of their faith." 

Rhodes 1 s Peak Scenery. 
Crosses used to be placed in the centre of parishes, at which 
places the people worshipped in the early periods of Christianity. 

Page 33, line 3. 

Helmets their kettles, and a spear their fork. 
To turn the chop, the steak, or roasting pork. 

" In the civil wars of the 17th. century, the village of Brough- 
ton, situated between the hostile garrisons of Skipton and Thorn- 
ton, had its full share of devastation and misery. It was a tra- 
dition at Broughton Hall, that the village had been so completely 
pillaged of common utensils, that an old helmet travelled in 
succession from house to house for the purpose of boiling broth 
and pottage. And an ancient poet has hit upon this very cir- 
cumstance. 



NOTES. 



215 



In days of old our fathers went to war 
Expecting- sturdy blows and hardy fare, 
Their beef they often in their murrions stewed, 
And in their basket-hilts their beverage brewed. 

Page 38, line 16. 

Her garland soon was in the abbey hung. 

Garlands were in some instances made of paper, and carried 
at the funerals of young unmarried women, inscribed with the 
age and name of the deceased ; which custom is followed at the 
present day, in Bolton, and most other churches of Wharfdale, 
where garlands may be seen hung upon the lattice-work of the 
choirs. 

" A garland fresh and fair, 
Of lillies there was made, 
In sign of her virginitie, 
And on her coffin laid." 

Dr. Percy 1 s old Songs. 

Page 48, line 7. 

Ilkley, thy healthy mountains, wells, and air, 
Can cure the nervous, trembling in despair. 

As a place where health is likely to improve, none is better 
situated, than this rural and romantic village. There are antiqui- 
ties, a river, mountains, rocks, and one of the finest wells in the 
kingdom, independent of its vicinity to the beautiful ruins of 
Bolton, and the enchanting scenes of fifteen miles in one of the 
most beautiful valleys of the north ; and where real rural pleasure 
and purity of air, with every thing reasonable that can strengthen 



216 



NOTES. 



the weak and delicate are the objects, Ilkley claims the prece- 
dence of every other watering place. 

Page 49, line 5. 

Denton, thou rural village, little known, 

Thou once hadst warriors who could shake a throne. 

The family of the Fairfaxes resided here, but their history 
being so well known to every reader, I will only mention the 
great and last decisive battle of Marston Moor. After which, the 
countrymen who were ordered to bury the dead, gave out that 
they interred 4150, two-thirds of whom were gentlemen and per- 
sons of quality. 

At Marston Grange, are many hundreds of cannon and musket 
balls, which have been found in the fields within these last 
forty years. 

Page 57, line 17. 

Then with near thirty wounds brave Graham bled, 

" Sir Richard Graham, of Norton Conyers, a very active officer 
on the side of royalty, after receiving twenty-six wounds in this 
battle, fled, when all was lost, toward his own house, which he 
reached that night, and expired about an hour after his arrival. 

Page 71, line 9. 

Vowed from his monarch he would never part, 
Then plunged the weapon to his charger's heart. 

" After Lord Clifford had overcome Fitzwalter at Ferrybridge, 
the Earl of Warwick mounted his courser, and riding up to King 



NOTES. 



217 



Edward, said, I pray God have mercy on their soules which in 
the beginning have lost their lives ; I see no succour in the world, 
but God, to whom I remit the vengeance. And so alighting 
from his horse, slew him with his sword, saying let him Hie that 
flie will, I will tarrie with him that will tarrie with me : and 
confirmed his words by kissing the cross of his sword." 

Page 72, line 1. 

Whoever shall such trembling dastard slay, 
Shall be promoted when we gain the day. 

" The next day more fatall for Englands bloud, was celebrated 
with speares instead of palmes, usually borne on that Saboth of 
Lent, in whose dawning, the Lord Fauconbridge, who commanded 
the foreward (the Duke of Norfolke being sicke) tooke the field 
on a plaine, betwixt the townes of Towton and Saxton, where 
King Edward joining his whole forces (being forty eight thou- 
sand, and six hundreth sixty persons, as King Henries were also 
threescore thousand) caused proclamation to bee made, that hee 
who feared to fight, might forthwith depart, but if any Souldier 
abiding, should seek to flie or turn backe, hee should bee slaine 
by his next fellow, and the slayer to receiue a great reward, be- 
sides the stipend of a double pay." 

Page 81, line 8. 

And drown the terrors of the day in wine. 

" After the battle of To^wton, the knightes as if it had been a 
daye of myrthe and sporte, spent the night in theire castilles 
talking of armes and amoures." 



NOTES. 



Page 190, line 8. 

Upon the mighty rocks where Goothe fell. 

An amiable and interesting Welsh youth, of the name of 
Charles Goothe, falling from the top or rocky sides of Helvellyn, 
perished there in 1805. His untimely end excited the deep com- 
miseration of the inhabitants of the surrounding neighbourhood. 



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